


Out to Drift

by beenghosting



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drifter Dean, M/M, Motels, One Night Stands, Prostitution, Runaway Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-04-01 19:01:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4031089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beenghosting/pseuds/beenghosting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean drives a black car with a loud engine. He lies too easily. He keeps a gun in the back of his jeans, and Castiel isn’t sure, but he wouldn’t be surprised if Dean has killed someone before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fugitive Motel

**Author's Note:**

> Some inspiration taken from the movie _No Vacancy_. Not beta-read. All mistakes are my own. **Warning for some off-screen violence.**
> 
>  **Update:** I never intended to write a sequel to this fic. I definitely never intended to write three. But I did! For some reason! Each of the following chapters are technically separate fics set in the same 'verse rather than chapters in one single fic. I didn't want to create a series because I've been pecking at these sequels for months and months and now that they're all done I just want to post them all at once. This is still not beta-read, and there's still some **warning for some off-screen violence of both a sexual and non-sexual nature** (not between Dean/Cas.) Background Sam/Jess and Anna/Jo.
> 
> Anyway, so. I'm finally done with this 'verse that I never intended to write in the first place. Go me.

The air conditioner breaks just as the weatherman starts predicting temperatures in the high nineties.  

Almost instantly the motel room drops into Hell-like temperatures, stuffy and burning-hot. Castiel sits up from where he’s sprawled out on the faded bedspread and glares at the unit as it fights for its last ounce of strength. It gives up with a clatter.

With a sigh, Castiel pulls himself off the bed. He drops to the floor on his knees and begins unscrewing the cheap metal covering. Sweat drips down his back as he fights to get the panel off, but inside it’s just a mess of wires and dust and he has no idea what he’s doing. He rubs at his eyes and leaves the panel on the floor.

——-

There’s a woman, two doors down, who always leaves her door open and who always pushes back the curtain to watch him whenever he leaves or comes back. Castiel isn’t sure if she does this for everyone, or just him. Today she’s outside, fanning herself with a dog-eared magazine.

“ _Hola_ ,” Castiel says.

She speaks too quickly, and all he’s able to catch is something about men without shirts.

Castiel hesitates. “Um.”

He’s already exhausted his knowledge of Spanish. He can ask for directions to the bathroom, but that’s about it. The woman stops fanning herself for a moment to shoo him away. That, at least, he understands.

There’s only one new car today; a long, black thing that shines like oil in the sun, parked at corner of the building. Castiel glances at it as he walks out of the motel parking lot.

——-

It’s a ten minute walk to the Five O’clock Shadow, a run-down truck stop just past the “Welcome” sign. It’s open twenty-four seven and set up to look like an old greaser bar. Either that or it was just never updated to keep up with modern times. One of the waitresses calls it “rinky-dink.” Another, “a piece of shit.” But so far he hasn’t gotten food poisoning, and one of the waitresses gave him a free milkshake on his first night, months ago, when he came in with nothing but a rumpled suit and a bag over his shoulder.

Best of all, it has air conditioning.

“You look like a drowned rat,” Meg greets him as he slumps down at the bar.

“The air conditioner broke,” Castiel says.

“Get the motel worker dude to fix it,” Meg says.

“They overcharge,” Castiel says.

“So then you fix it,” Meg says.

“Don’t you think I’d be doing that if I knew how?” Castiel asks.

“You’re useless,” Meg says. She shoves a glass of ice water at him and slaps a menu down in front of him. “That is  _not_  on the house, by the way. You’re a disappointment to the male race.”

“Men aren’t a race.” Castiel flips open the menu and browses.

“Whatever,” Meg says. She smiles at a couple at the other end of the restaurant and holds up a hand, signalling for a minute. “God, I hate couples.”

“You hate everyone,” Castiel says. “There’s a new club wrap? What’s that like?”

“It’s shit,” Meg says.

“Great, I’ll get one of those.” Castiel folds the menu back up and slides it back to her.

——-

Castiel eats by the front window with the blinds pulled up so he can people-watch. The truckers with their big rigors pull off to the side and spread out along the picnic tables, smoking cigarettes and double-checking their routes. Some of them have dogs with them. Families stop in for lunch on their way through town. The locals wait until after the rush hours to come in, trying to avoid the crowds. Castiel doodles on a napkin with a blue pen.

At half-past two he’s finishing his second cup of coffee when the black car from the motel parking lot pulls in, engine growling loudly. A few of the truckers turn their heads. A group of college students with Canadian licence plates stop organizing their car to stare.

A man gets out of the driver’s side. There’s holes in the knees of his jeans and dirt on the toes of his boots. Despite the heat he’s got a leather jacket on, over what looks like at least two other layers of shirts. He ignores everyone’s gaze and runs a palm over his car’s side.

Once inside, he pockets a pair of sunglasses and flashes a grin to Eve, who’s closest to the door. She nods in return and wanders off towards the kitchen, and the man slowly makes his way over to the bar, glancing around the restaurant.

“Want another?” Meg asks, startling him.

“What?” he asks. She shakes the coffee pot at him and he says, “Oh. Sure. Thank you.”

She fills his cup and leaves enough room for cream and sugar.

“You keep staring at him like that and you’re going to burn holes in his nice leather jacket,” she says.

“I’m not staring,” Castiel says.

“Whatever you say, Clarence,” she grins at him. He ignores her and dumps a packet of sugar into his mug.

——-

By three-thirty the rest of the patrons have left the diner. Except for Castiel and the man with the black car. The quiet won’t last long. By four-fifteen the first of the older crowd will start trickling in to stake claim on the largest booth in the back.

Castiel turns the blinds down to block out the sun and glances over to the other man, still sitting at the bar. Castiel isn’t sure what he ordered for lunch, but he got a slice of pie and a cup of coffee for dessert after. He has a leather-bound notebook spread out in front of him, but he’s not writing in it.

Castiel pulls another napkin out of the dispenser and starts drawing. The curve of broad shoulders, the bend of arms, the wrinkles in the leather. He uses short lines to detail the hair. Thin, light lines for the shading.

Eventually the man drops a wad of bills on the bartop, grabs his coat, and leaves.

——-

There’s an outlet mall further down the road that sells fans. It’s another fifteen minute walk. By the time Castiel makes it back to the motel parking lot, he’s drenched and drained and light-headed. Without the air conditioning his room is going to be boiling, but if he doesn’t sit down for a minute he’s going to pass out.

He heads to his room. Kevin next door is practicing his cello again, the noise low and thrumming. Sad, almost. Castiel digs out his keys and wonders if Kevin misses his family, his parents. If he even has parents anymore. He gets his room open and is hit with a nauseating wave of heat, thick and humid and suffocating. Immediately he opens the window as wide as it can go, but it does little to help.

Castiel slumps down on the bed and sighs. He won’t be able to work up the energy to go to the mall now.

——-

The motel’s owner is a scruffy, bearded man named Chuck who perpetually wears sandals and a ratted bathrobe and is, apparently, working on a series of books about vampires.

“No, they’re not—it’s not just vampires.” Chuck pushes his glasses up his nose. “There’s werewolves, too. And—do you know what a Tulpa is?”

“No,” Castiel says. “Sorry.”

“Right,” Chuck says. “I’ve done a lot of research about different urban legends.”

“So the series is about urban legends?” Castiel asks.

“Kinda?” Chuck says, like even he doesn’t know. Maybe he doesn’t.

“Well,” Castiel says. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Chuck says. Then, remembering, he digs out the key for the gate and tosses it over. Castiel catches it one-handed and gives Chuck a nod before he makes his way down the hall, towel slung over his shoulder.

——-

“You’re not seriously going swimming in there,” Krissy asks from where she’s stretched out on a pool chair, lifting her oversized sunglasses to look at him.

Castiel frowns down at the pool. He cleaned it last week, but already there’s what looks like a pile of leaves and grass clippings floating on the surface, an empty chip bag and a few disintegrating cigarette butts. It’s definitely not the greatest pool, but the heat is relentless, and he stayed up all night tossing and turning and trying to find the coldest spot on the mattress without success.

“At least it’s cool,” he shrugs, dropping his towel and moving to grab the pool net.

“Barely,” Krissy says.

“Where’s your father?”

“No idea.” Krissy drops her sunglasses down again.

Castiel sighs and begins fishing out leaves.

——-

The black car is parked at the truck stop again when Castiel stops in for an early dinner.

Inside, the cool air lifts the weight of the afternoon heat from his shoulders the second he steps through the door. Eve smiles at him as she serves a young family, and across the restaurant Meg nods, completely unsubtle, to the end of the bar where the black car’s owner sits, cellphone pressed to his ear.  

Castiel picks a stool a few seats away and Meg gives him a glass of water.

“Fixed the air yet?” she asks.

“No.”

“Useless,” she sighs, giving him a menu. Castiel ignores it for a moment in favor of his water.

And eavesdropping, though he tells himself he isn’t.

The man scrapes a hand down the side of his face and closes his eyes as he nods. Whoever is on the other end of that call, their voice burbles out of the phone continuously, a long stream of tinny, muffled noises.

“Yes sir,” the man says eventually. “Yeah, I—no, I know. Right. No, sir.”

The man sighs and tucks his phone away. Castiel swallows his water and chances it.

“Boss?” he asks.

The man looks at him. He’s got a splash of freckles over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, stubble along his chin. He’s young—younger than Castiel—and he looks at him curiously, but not unkindly.

“Something like that, yeah,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says. “They can be a pain.”

“Yeah. Bosses are dicks,” the man says.

“I’ve seen your car at the motel,” Castiel says.

“Big Sky?” the man asks.

Castiel nods. “I’m room sixteen.”

“Five,” the man says. He holds his hand out and says, “Dean Winchester.”

——-

They talk through the dinner rush.

Dean likes classic rock. He likes fixing things with his hands. He likes greasy burgers and Coke with lime squeezed in it. He steals over-priced books from stores then leaves them in the library on his way out of town. He’s read  _Ham on Rye_  twice and talks about  _Star Trek_  more than anyone Castiel’s ever met.

“You’ve never seen  _Star Trek_?” Dean asks. “Like, any of them? How is that even possible?”

Castiel shrugs. “Never found the time, I guess.”

“Dude,” Dean says. “ _Dude._ ”

Dean says he’s a journalist, writing an article on the best pies of America. Castiel senses Dean might be lying, but he doesn’t push it. Dean says it means travelling from one state to the next and eating at every rundown, dilapidated diner he comes across. But when he tells them he’s a food critic, he usually gets a free meal out of it.  

“But you’ve already tried the pie here,” Castiel says.

“It’s good,” Dean beams at him. “Might even be in the top ten, so far.”

Castiel takes a drink from his mug.

“Besides,” Dean presses closer, lowers his voice. “It’s worth it for the people you meet.”

Castiel swallows his coffee. Dean watches the waitresses bustle around, but he keeps turning back to him again, turned on his stool so he’s facing him, so his knees bump against Castiel’s every so often. He plays with the straw of his soda, climbs his thumb and his index fingers up to the tip, where he taps against the hole, the pad of his finger sticking. It makes a quiet  _pop_.

“What about you, Castiel?” Dean asks. “What do you do?”

Castiel shrugs. “Nothing at the moment, really. Odd jobs here and there.”

Dean nods, the corner of his mouth tilting up in a smile.

Castiel thinks Dean might sense he’s lying, too.

——-

It’s been a while since Castiel’s tried this. Years, at least. He’s not sure if he can even remember how. Maybe it’s not the greatest idea—not when his room is well-lived in and the air conditioner is still broken, the panel still lying on the floor because every time he tries to work up the energy to put it back on, he can’t.

But it’s closing in on ten o’clock, and Dean’s steadily been inching closer. Close enough now that their elbows bump whenever one of them moves their arm. And there’s an itch at the base of Castiel’s spine that flares up whenever Dean’s eyes drop to his mouth.

If this goes to hell, if he shoots himself in the foot, at least Dean will probably be out of the motel and back on the road in a few days’ time, and Castiel will never have to see him again.

“Do you know how to fix an air conditioning unit?” he asks.

——-

Dean’s got a toolkit in the back of his car, he says. He waves Castiel over, lets him into the passenger side, and together they drive back to the motel with the car windows down and the radio murmuring quietly in the background.

“This is a nice car,” Castiel says.

Dean grins. “Thanks. She was my dad’s. Gave her to me for my 18th.”

“And when was that?” Castiel asks.

“Uh,” Dean shifts in his seat. “Seven—no, eight years ago?”

Five years younger.

They pull into the Big Sky parking lot. Chuck’s turned the vacancy sign back on. Probably Krissy and her father, if Castiel had to chance a guess. He looks for their truck as Dean parks the car outside his motel room. The truck’s gone, but the light in their room is still on.

Castiel waits by the door as Dean digs through his trunk.

“You don’t have a car?” he asks, voice muffled.

“No,” Castiel says.

“How’d you get here?” Dean asks, closing the trunk.

“I have my ways,” Castiel says.

Dean comes to stand next to him, head tilted, bemused, but still smiling. He smells like leather and spice and shaving cream. Castiel’s stomach flutters. He clears his throat and unlocks his room, holds his breath as they step past the threshold. But if Dean has any comments on the state of the place, on the mess of clothing, the dishes drying in the rack, the piles of canned food on the counter, he keeps them to himself.

“Dude, this thing’s toast,” Dean says, dropping his toolkit on the table. “I don’t know if I can do anything about it. You’ll probably have to tell the manager and get him to install a new one.”

“Really?” Castiel says. “So I’ll be waiting weeks, then.”

“Probably,” Dean says. “Sorry, man.”

“It’s fine,” Castiel says. At this point it might just be easier to ask Chuck for a new room all together. More expensive, but at least he won’t be waiting around for a repairman to come. That’s if he doesn’t die of heat exhaustion first.

Dean watches him for a moment.

“Mine’s working okay,” he says.

“You’re lucky,” Castiel says.

“Yeah,” Dean rubs at the back of his neck. He clears his throat. “I, uh. I’ve got beer?”

——-

Room five is smaller, but definitely cooler. And Dean does have beer. Castiel’s never been much of a beer drinker, but it’s cold and refreshing, so he takes the bottle gladly, pressing it against his temple for a moment before cracking it open.

Dean pulls a gun out from the back of his jeans and puts it in the bedside drawer. Castiel doesn’t ask, even though he wants to. Dean turns on the television, flicks through channels until he finds something he deems suitable. Castiel’s never seen it before, some doctor show where everyone is good-looking. Dean helps himself to another beer. Castiel picks at the label of his.

“I’m only in town for a few days,” Dean says.

“Then you’re off to find more pie,” Castiel says.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Still on the look for America’s Greatest.”

“I hope you find it,” Castiel says. “I’ve heard good things about Seattle.”

“You’re thinking coffee,” Dean says.

Castiel shrugs. “You’re the expert.”

Dean grins around the lip of his beer bottle.

——-

Later, Dean swallows and says, “I—I haven’t really, uh.”

And it’s not all that surprising. He’s awkward, unsubtle, fumbling. He keeps staring at Castiel’s mouth, until Castiel realizes he isn’t going to make a move. So Castiel does. He pulls the bottle from his hands, sets it on the counter behind him and kisses him, gentle, letting Dean test the waters until he finds his confidence again in whatever hole it’s crawled up in.

Dean tugs at his clothes, kneels on the floor between his feet as he pulls his jeans down, touches him with warm, callused hands. They’re not the hands of a journalist, of a man writing articles about food for a living. Castiel leans into the touch anyway. Dean kisses his hips, runs his hands up the insides of his thighs, licks his lips and stares between his legs with a flush to his cheeks. Castiel runs a thumb over his jaw, cups his cheek.

“Can I?” Dean asks.

“You haven’t before?” Castiel asks.

“Dude,” Dean says. “I know not to use teeth.”

“No,” Castiel says. “That’s not what I meant. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“I’m fine,” Dean says, but he’s not paying attention anymore.

He shuffles forward, pulls Castiel closer by his hips. Castiel’s hand drops to his shoulder, digs his fingers into the fabric of his t-shirt. Dean’s mouth closes around him, hot and wet and eager, tongue swirling, and Castiel’s legs threaten to give out from under him.

Dean moans, pulls him in further, works him with his hand and his mouth and he’s—he’s definitely done this before, but Castiel shoves the thought into the back of his head where he’ll either forget about it completely or remember it later when it’s too late.

After, Dean pushes him towards the bed, down onto the mattress. He grinds against him, knees on either side of his hips. His breath comes out in warm, fast puffs against Castiel’s face. His mouth tastes salty, feels sticky when he kisses him. He’s hot and heavy in Castiel’s palm, leaking steadily as Castiel pumps him, twists at the head.

Dean rides it out, tangles his fingers in the hair at Castiel’s neck and says, “Fuck, Cas,” when he comes.

——-

It’s not the first time anyone’s called him that. If Castiel stays in a place long enough, eventually people come to know him as  _Cas_  rather than  _Castiel._  He’s glad for it—his family calls him Castiel, with their faces tense, mouths twisting, like it tastes sour in their mouths.

But Meg and Eve say  _Cas_ with a slight teasing lilt. Chuck, and Krissy, and Krissy’s father, even Kevin next door, in the rare times he leaves his room, they say  _Cas_ , friendly and companionable.

Dean says it low,  _Cas_. He whispers it,  _Cas_. He presses it against Castiel’s mouth, breathes it out, sighs it when Castiel runs his fingers through his hair.  _Cas, Cas, Cas._

It sounds good. It sounds right.

——-

They go for breakfast in the morning. Meg gives him a disgusted look that he ignores.

It’s sweet, almost. The first time Castiel slept with a stranger, she kicked him out of her apartment as soon as the sun started coming up behind the city skyline. Her roommate was coming home, she said. Castiel learned, years later, when he wasn’t so young and naïve, that  _roommate_  was code for  _boyfriend_.

Some of the others, they let him make toast for the road, or bought him coffee to go along with an awkward farewell. The only one that bought him breakfast wanted to see him again, clung to him even after a night of drunken disappointments. Castiel managed to hitch a ride out of town while the guy was in the restroom.

But Dean said he was leaving town in a few days, so Castiel agrees.

——-

“What’s your favorite?” Castiel asks. He doodles Meg on a napkin, because she pretends she hates it but she’s kept every single one he’s given her, tucked away in the pocket of her apron.

Dean shovels eggs into his mouth, cuts a slice of sausage off with his fork. He dips his hashbrowns into a pool of ketchup that slowly drips its way into his eggs. It’s disgusting, and Castiel is charmed despite himself.

Dean chews thoughtfully for a moment, watching Castiel draw.

“You’re really good at that,” he says.

Castiel smiles. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Well.” Dean wipes his mouth. “You can’t go wrong with apple. It’s an American staple.”

“I’ve always found that odd, by the way,” Castiel says. “Apples aren’t American.”

Dean frowns at him. “What you mean they’re not American? Of course they’re American.”

“Apples were brought over to the Americas from Europe and Asia,” Castiel says. “So, technically, apple pie is not American.”

Dean swallows his mouthful of food.

“Sorry,” Castiel says.

“Anyway,” Dean picks up his cup of coffee. “Apple’s good and all. But what I really love is a nice pecan. That’s like—that’s a  _dessert_  on its own, y’know what I mean?”

“Well, pie in general is considered a dessert—”

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean says. Castiel’s fingers twitch against his mug and he tries not to smile.

——-

They’re on their way to the outlet mall to pick up a fan for Castiel’s room when Dean gets a phone call. He pulls into an empty lot to take it, giving Castiel an apologetic smile before closing the door and wandering off to pace under a tree.

When he gets back in the car, he sighs and tucks his phone away.

“Sorry,” he says. “It was my, uh…”

“Editor?” Castiel suggests.

Dean looks at him.

“Uh, yeah,” he says. “He’s just—y’know.”

“Bosses are dicks,” Castiel says.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees.

The lie sits between them and neither of them comment on it.

——-

Castiel buys two fans—a large one for the floor, and a smaller one for the bedside table. He sets them up and turns them on high. They spin back and forth, back and forth, moving hot air around the room. Castiel sits directly in front of the small one, eyes closed, enjoying the feel of the breeze against his skin.

“Hey,” Dean says, leaning against the doorway. He rubs at the corner of his eye and says, “I, uh. I have to go out for a few hours. Just—work stuff.”

“Okay,” Castiel nods. “Thank you for driving me to the mall.”

“It was no problem, Cas,” Dean says.

That name again. It fights to sit in the center of Castiel’s chest. It’s a losing battle. He gives up and lets it.

Dean looks at the fans. “Hopefully they help.”

“They will,” Castiel says.

Dean fidgets with his keys. “This was fun.”

Castiel nods. He’s heard this good-bye before. He knew it was coming. They had a good night together, a good breakfast. Dean stuck around longer than Castiel expected him to, but it’s run its course. Another notch in the bedpost.

Dean smiles at him and gives him a wave before he leaves.

——-

Kevin starts his cello practice at four. Krissy plays rock music in the next room, the beat thumping into the walls. Together they blend and mix and surround Castiel in an odd symphony of different sounds.

Eventually it becomes overwhelming and he steps outside. Dean’s black car is gone, the parking space in front of his door vacant. Castiel doesn’t know what else he expected. The Spanish woman two doors down has left, her room empty.

Castiel meets Chuck outside the office and they round the corner to smoke a joint in the back.

“I think I’m almost done,” Chuck says, tapping the ash into a tin can before handing the joint over. “I can feel it, you know? It’s like—I can finally get a good night’s sleep after this. Which is horrible, considering. I sent one of my main characters to Hell. Literal Hell. I’m an awful person.”

Castiel takes the joint between his fingers.  

“Does he get out?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Chuck says. He frowns and says, “Hey, yeah. That’s a good idea.”

——-

The fans help. Castiel turns them both towards the bed and stretches out above the covers. After the sun sets and the crickets come out full-force, he’s able to doze off. It’s a light sleep, and in the morning he’ll probably feel groggy, but for the time being it’ll have to do.

At one in the morning there’s a knock on his door. He thinks about ignoring it. It might be Chuck, wide awake and over-excited with a new idea that he needs to ramble on about for an hour, talk himself into writing the next scene.

The knock sounds again. Castiel sighs and gets out of bed.

“Hey,” Dean says when the door opens.

“Dean,” Castiel says. He opens the door wider and Dean steps in.

“I—sorry. I know it’s late.” His hands are shaking. There’s blood on his knuckles. He has a black eye, and a bleeding gash along his hairline.

“What the hell happened to you?” Castiel asks, turning on the light and sitting him down in a chair.

“What?” Dean asks. He touches his head and gets blood on his fingers. “Oh, shit. Sorry—fuck, I should—”

He goes to get up and Castiel puts a hand on his shoulder, lowering him back into the chair. Dean swallows, looks away. Castiel heads into the bathroom, pulls a clean cloth from the cupboard and wets it with warm water. When he comes back out Dean is still sitting in the chair, still shaking.

“Here,” Castiel says. He presses the cloth against Dean’s head. Dean takes it gently, hand falling over the back of Cas’s, palm warm. Rough. Castiel waits for Dean to move before pulling his hand away to grab a kitchen chair and sit down.

“Look, man,” Dean says. “You know—I mean. I’m not really a journalist.”

“I know,” Castiel says. Dean looks up at him.

“My dad,” he says. “He wants me out of here tomorrow. Back on the road.”

“Your father did this to you?” Castiel asks.

“What? No. Not this—he’s not even here.” Dean drops the cloth and sighs. “Look, my life is hell, okay. It’s dangerous, and I’m not gonna pretend otherwise. And it’s not fair to drag other people into that. It’s just, sometimes I need—it’s complicated. My life is complicated.”

“Complicated,” Castiel says.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Complicated. Like, you living in a motel, won’t give me your last name. Complicated, y’know?”

Castiel inhales, sharp. He exhales, slowly.

“Ah,” he says.

“It’s fine,” Dean says. “I get it. Trust me, I get it.”

——-

The bleeding stops, eventually. The shaking, only when Castiel pulls Dean down onto the bed and wraps his arms around him. Dean kisses along his jaw. He pulls down the neck of Castiel’s t-shirt and nips at his collarbones, slides his hands into Castiel’s hair. Whispers, “Cas,” against his mouth when Castiel slips his knee between his thighs.

_Cas, Cas, Cas._

——-

“Milton,” Castiel says. He’s drifting off to sleep with Dean’s hair tickling his chin. “My last name is Milton. You can look me up, if you need to.”

Dean presses closer to him and says, “I don’t.”

——-

Dean is gone in the morning. It doesn’t come as a surprise.

There’s a note taped to his door. That, however, does.

> _Hey,_  
>  _Call me sometime. Or text, or whatever. If you want._  
>  _1-866-907-3235_  
>  _Dean_

——-

Castiel texts him,  **Hello, Dean.**

Dean texts back,  **Cas?**

**Yes. How are you?**

**On the road,**  Dean texts back.  **Met up with my dad.**

**Was he worried?**

The next text doesn’t come for a few hours.

**My dad doesn’t do worried.**

Dean drives a black car with a loud engine. He lies too easily. He keeps a gun in the back of his pants, and Castiel isn’t sure, but he wouldn’t be surprised if Dean has killed someone before. But his whole face lights up when he smiles. He gets embarrassed about the things he likes, and he liked it when Castiel held him in his sleep, let him bury his face into his chest.

He left Big Sky Motel still bloody and shaken up, from whatever it was that happened to him, from whatever he can’t talk about. He left, alone, and he drove, for however long, only to meet up with a father who isn’t even worried.

And all Castiel can say is,  **I’m sorry, Dean.**

——-

Castiel calls in someone to repair the air conditioning. It’ll cost him extra to use someone not affiliated with the motel, but Castiel’s getting desperate. The guy comes around in the afternoon and installs a new unit, and within an hour Castiel is stretched out on his bed in air conditioned bliss.

He doesn’t feel as happy as he hoped he would.

——-

**I think I might be ready to leave Big Sky,** Castiel texts.

**Where to?**  Dean texts back.

**Anywhere my family isn’t,** Castiel texts.  **I don’t know.**

**Well, where do you want to go?**

——-

“Ugh,” Meg says by way of greeting.

Castiel sits at the bar and frowns at her. “What?”

“You look like a puppy that just got his favorite toy taken away,” Meg says. “I hate puppies.”

“You hate everything,” Castiel says.

“I hate you, especially,” Meg says. She gives him a free milkshake anyway.

——-

**I think I want to go someplace colder,**  Castiel decides.

**So go North.**

**Like Alaska?**  Castiel asks.

**Not that far,**  Dean texts back.  **Try Washington. In a week.**

**What’s in Washington in a week?**

——-

A family pulls into the Big Sky parking lot in a hideous dark blue minivan. They park outside door five. Their two little girls in bright bathing suits spend the afternoon splashing around in the pool, getting sunburned and water-pruned.

Krissy reads a book on her usual chair. Kevin comes out for some fresh air, looking over his shoulder every few minutes, like someone’s about to grab him. Chuck comes around the back with a glass of whiskey and a notebook.

“I couldn’t stop,” he says, sitting next to Castiel. “You gave me an idea and I just kept going.”

“So what happens?” Castiel asks.

“He gets out of Hell,” Chuck says. “He gets rescued by an angel.”

——-

Castiel’s last text from Dean is just one word:  **Me.**


	2. Mad to be Saved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wants to ask about the marks on Dean’s wrists, the bruises on his hips and his collarbones. The ones Castiel pointedly didn’t touch when he was leaving his own. The cuts on his knuckles, the way he flinched at first when Castiel put his hand to the back of his neck, gentle.

It’s raining when he arrives in Washington. Castiel grabs his bag from between his shoes, hefts it over his shoulder, and gets out of his seat before the bus comes to a full stop. He lurches, picks his way carefully up to the front, tells the driver, “Thank you,” before taking the few steps off the bus and onto solid ground. 

There’s a familiar black car in the parking lot. Castiel makes his way towards it. Dean is nowhere to be seen. Castiel swallows the thumping in his throat back down into his chest. Dean’s car is here, so Dean has to be here. 

He’s barely been standing next to the trunk a minute before he spots him, coming out of the station with two paper cups in his hands. Dean grins at him and makes his way over, holding out one of the cups. 

“You got in early,” he says. Castiel takes the cup from his hand, warms it between his palms.

“I think the driver was attempting to break a record,” he says. 

“They might’ve managed,” Dean says. “I, uh—sugar and cream, right?”

Castiel smiles. “You remembered.” 

Dean shrugs a shoulder, the tips of his ears going pink. 

“I got a room at a motel nearby,” he says. “It’s not Big Sky, but the air conditioning works.”

\-----

They make the drive over to the motel. Dean notices Castiel’s lack of luggage, eyeing his wilting bag curiously, but he doesn’t say anything. Just rolls down the windows a bit to let in some fresh air and stray raindrops. Castiel finishes his coffee.

The room is like being thrown back to the ‘70’s, covered in outdated browns and burnt oranges. One of the picture frames hangs a little crookedly, the television has honest-to-god rabbit ears, and there’s two beds. The pool is directly outside the window, surrounded by a chain link fence. A few toys are scattered on the pavement, abandoned and left to collect rain water.

“You hungry?” Dean asks from the small kitchenette, where there’s empty beer bottles and a greasy pizza box. When Castiel nods, Dean says, “Drop your stuff. We’ll get something to eat.”

Castiel leaves his bag on the empty bed, the one closest to the window.

\-----

He doodles on napkins while they wait for their order. Dean barely glances at the menu before announcing he’ll take the bacon cheeseburger. Castiel hums and haws and finally settles on the club sandwich and side salad. Dean watches him with his straw in between his teeth, stuck to his bottom lip.

“How was the trip?” he asks. 

“Long,” Castiel says. “Tiring. The man ahead of me reeked of body odor, and I was sat next to a woman who wouldn’t stop talking to me for four hours before we reached her stop. I’ve never felt so relieved in my life to have a seat to myself.”

Dean grins around his straw. “You’re so antisocial.” 

“I’m not.” Castiel draws the sleek lines, the sharp corners of Dean’s car from memory. “I just enjoy silence, sometimes.”

“Nothin’ wrong with that,” Dean says. “I guess I’m just used to it, y’know? Sometimes a little conversation is refreshing. Keeps a guy from going nuts.” 

“You’re an extrovert,” Castiel says. 

Dean shrugs. “Maybe.”

The waitress arrives with their food. Castiel leans away, gives her room to place it on the table. Dean reaches out and takes the napkin he’d been drawing on, folds it up neatly and puts it in the inside pocket of his leather jacket. 

Castiel doesn’t say anything, unsure if he was supposed to notice.

\-----

Back at the motel, Dean flips through channels, plays with the hole in the knee of his jeans. Watches Castiel out of the corner of his eye. They’re sharing a bed—Castiel’s, closer to the open window, where a breeze creeps in—and Castiel has his bag in his lap, digging through it, pulling clothes out and his toiletry bag and a pill bottle that’s been empty for ages. He sighs.

“I think I left it behind,” he says. 

Dean looks at him, taps his fingers against the neck of his beer bottle. “We can get you another one.” 

“I was almost finished,” Castiel says. 

“It’s okay, Cas,” Dean says, and the name sends a tingle down his spine. “There’s a second-hand bookshop in town. I’ll take you, if you want. Tomorrow?” 

Castiel pulls his hands out of his bag, defeated. 

“It was my sister’s,” he says. “She gave it to me.” 

Dean watches him for a moment, quiet. 

“I’m sorry,” he says finally.

\-----

That night, Dean kisses him first, and Castiel’s heart flutters pleasantly in his chest. Dean’s fingers are light at the hem of his t-shirt, the pads of his thumbs brushing carefully, hesitantly against the bare skin of Castiel’s hipbones. He tastes like the cinnamon gum he’s been chewing for the last hour, spicy-sweet like hearts on Valentine’s Day, and his stubble scratches Castiel’s face. Castiel murmurs nonsensically, says nothing of importance against Dean’s jaw. He wants that scrape, that burn, he wants it to leave red marks over his skin, down his chest and stomach and between his thighs.

“Cas,” Dean says against his mouth. Castiel pulls at Dean’s belt buckle, slides the leather out of the loops. Dean presses closer to him, finally pushes his hands up beneath Castiel’s t-shirt. Castiel unzips his fly, nips at Dean’s bottom lip, and Dean says it again, “ _Cas_.”

\-----

“Thank you,” Dean says later. After. From where he’s tucked against Castiel’s side, his hand over his chest, and Castiel’s arm looped around him, holding him close. He runs the tips of his fingers over Dean’s shoulder, pretends he hasn’t noticed the bruises and angry marks littered over his skin.

“For what?” Castiel asks.

Dean shrugs in his grip. “I don’t—I dunno.” 

Castiel nuzzles into his hair, says, “For what, Dean?” 

“For coming, I guess,” Dean says. “I’ve been—I just. Thanks, y’know?”

Castiel squeezes his shoulder. He wants to ask about the marks on Dean’s wrists, the bruises on his hips and his collarbones. The ones Castiel pointedly didn’t touch when he was leaving his own. The cuts on his knuckles, the way he flinched at first when Castiel put his hand to the back of his neck, gentle. 

He wants to, but he doesn’t.

\-----

True to his word, Dean drives him into town the next day to visit The Book Keeper. They arrive half an hour early, before the store opens, so they get breakfast from the gas station across the street in the form of microwaved egg burritos.

They’re disgusting. Castiel gets melted cheese everywhere and Dean laughs at him. But they’re sitting outside on a cement parking block, the sun is warm against his back, and Dean has a hickey peeking out from the collar of his shirt. Castiel reaches out and touches it with his thumb. Dean’s ears go pink and he clears his throat.

\-----

The Book Keeper is old and dusty, with shelves upon shelves of paperback novels and hardcover textbooks and encyclopaedias. Dean hovers near the biographies, pulling books out and flipping through them before putting them back on the shelf.

Castiel browses the fiction section. He finds a copy of the book he’s looking for, dog-eared and nearly falling apart at the seams, plus two more that he piles into his arms. He turns to leave the section when he finds another. He pulls it off the shelf and sets atop the pile before he wanders over to find Dean.

“Look at this,” Dean says when Castiel comes to stand at his side. “There’s a whole section on aliens. Look—look at this one. _The Complete Guide to Surviving an Alien Apocalypse._ Unbelievable.”

Castiel picks the book up. “Does it come with a tinfoil hat?”

Dean barks out a laugh at that. Castiel smiles at him and puts the book back on the shelf. He pulls the novel off the top of his pile and hands it over to Dean, who blinks at it before taking it.

“What’s this?” 

“A classic,” Castiel says. 

Dean thumbs through it. “There’s no paragraphs.”

Castiel nods. “It’s the original scroll. The censored version has a character with your name in it. I thought it might be a bit jarring. But… I wouldn’t know. I haven’t come across any work of fiction with someone named ‘Castiel.’”

“Someone should write one,” Dean says. “Name’s kinda biblical, right? So he’d be some powerful, scary dude. Who’s secretly a massive dork. And who gives good head.” 

“And his charming friend who drives a big black car and makes inappropriate conversation in the middle of second-hand book stores,” Castiel says. “I’m afraid no one would read it.”

“No way,” Dean says. “It’d be a best seller. They’d make a television show out of it.”

\-----

At dinner, the waitress calls Dean by his name when she slides a plate of steaming apple pie towards him and a brownie in front of Castiel. She smiles at Castiel in a blank, polite way as she tops up his coffee mug, then tells them to let her know if they need anything else. He finds himself missing Meg. It’s only been a few days, but he wonders how she’s doing, wishes he had gotten her number so he could at least text her to tell her the coffee here isn’t as good.

Dean eats his pie as he looks out the window. His phone buzzes on the tabletop. He ignores it, but it keeps buzzing, vibrating across the wood, until Castiel finally gets annoyed enough to ask, “Are you going to answer that?” 

Dean looks down at his phone. He stops chewing. 

“Shit,” he says. “Uh—yeah, hang on.” 

He grabs his phone and holds up his hand for Castiel to wait, then presses a button and answers, sliding out of the booth and walking away. Castiel pushes pieces of his brownie around on his plate before he decides he isn’t hungry.

\-----

“Who was that?” Castiel asks as they leave the restaurant.

“Nothing.” Dean digs his keys out of his pocket. “No one. It’s nothing.” 

Castiel looks at him. Dean winces, looks like he wants to kick himself. He clears his throat and looks down at the keys in his hands. He’s not going to apologize for lying—and Castiel doesn’t expect him to, even if the weight of it sits uncomfortably in his gut. 

“Anyway,” Dean says. “Anywhere else you wanna go?” 

Small towns don’t offer much in the way of sightseeing. They stop at a Starbucks—Castiel ignoring Dean’s grumbling about overpriced coffee—that has information about a different Starbucks, one in Seattle, the first of the chain. They go to a hardware store for lack of anything better to do, and stumble across a sign that says _No vampires beyond this point_ , which Castiel takes a picture of on his phone. He smiles at Dean after, who presses close enough to him that their fingers brush.

Dean drives across the country in his car and never stays in a place long enough to get a lay of the land. Each town is as unfamiliar as the last. He can’t tell Castiel where the best place to get deli is, or if there are any stores in town where they can still rent movies. Big Sky might not have been home to Castiel, but he knew the area, he knew the shops and the waitresses at the diner and the man at the front desk of the motel.

On the way back to the car, Castiel asks, “Do you have a home?” 

Dean blinks. “What?" 

“A home,” Castiel says. “You know. One that’s… a place where—”

He has no idea how to describe what a home is. Dean doesn’t look at him with pity, or with sympathy, or even with understanding. He just looks at him, blank, the only tell the slight clench of his jaw. 

“My Baby’s my home,” Dean says. Then he grins. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

\-----

There are people in the pool right outside the motel room, their laughter trailing in through the open window, along with the sound of water splashing and bare feet slapping on wet concrete. A life guard tells them to slow down. To be careful.

There are people right outside, and Dean pulls him into the wet heat of his mouth. 

It’s inappropriate, Castiel thinks. He stares up at the water-stained ceiling and tries not to think. Dean bought the book he found for him, and when Castiel turns his head, just slightly, he can see it where it rests on the bedside table, underneath Dean’s phone. Its broken spine faces him, the red letters standing out on the white cover. 

Dean pulls off him with a slurp, breathes hard against his hip, wrapping his hand around him. Castiel runs his fingers through his hair, over his cheek, his jaw. Tries to reach lower, where there are still fading marks along Dean’s neck, underneath the string of his necklace. Dean grins up at him. 

“More?” he asks. His hand is warm—hot, almost—as it slides up the length of him, then back down. He squeezes at the base, bites at his own lip expectantly. 

Castiel reaches down, wraps his fingers around Dean’s wrist, careful of the bruises. “Where did you get these?”

Dean stills. He stares at him for a moment, tense, then moves his hand away. 

“What?” he asks. “Get—I dunno what you mean.”

“Dean,” Castiel says.

“It’s nothing,” Dean says. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Dean, I just want to help,” Castiel says.

“I don’t need your help,” Dean snaps. Then he softens in a way that only scrapes the surface, only shows in the crooked tilt of his smile, the gentle way he lays his hand on Castiel’s thigh. His shoulders are still stiff, his eyes still distant when he says, “Hey, you got a condom?”

Castiel frowns at him. “Why?”

Dean moves up the bed, until his knees are planted on either side of Castiel’s hips.

“Cuz I want you to fuck me, genius.” 

“Dean,” Castiel says. “I’m trying—”

“You want to, right?” Dean cuts him off, leans forward to press a kiss to Castiel’s mouth. His breath is still coming out too fast to be calm, his hands shaking against Castiel’s chest. Dean kisses him again and asks, “You wanna fuck me?”

“Dean,” Castiel tries again. 

“I want you to. Wanna feel you. Bet you feel good.” Dean punctuates each sentence with another kiss to his face. Castiel shuts his eyes tight. Tries to ignore the rolling in his stomach, tries to keep his voice steady.

“Dean,” he says again. “Who did that to you?” 

“For fuck’s sake, leave it, okay?” Dean says. “It’s none of your damn business. Now you gonna fuck me, or are we done here?”

“Done?” Castiel asks.

Dean laughs humorlessly and moves off his lap, off the bed. 

“What the hell did you think was going on here, man?” he asks, arms open to gesture to the room at large. “That, what. We’re—we’re besties, that you’d come here and, I dunno. Sweep me off my feet? Rescue me from my shit life like some fucking knight in shining armor?” 

“No,” Castiel says. “That’s _not_ what—” 

“You got nice hands and a hot body and I needed to get laid. That’s all this is,” Dean says. “You just happened to be stupid enough to make the trip.”

“No.” Castiel shakes his head. “I’ll put up with a lot of shit, Dean. I’ve let a lot of your lies slip under the radar, pretended I didn’t notice for your sake. But you can’t possibly expect me to believe that.”

“Well,” Dean says. “Believe it.” 

“So that’s it,” Castiel says. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Yeah, Cas. That’s it.”

\-----

Castiel gets the lady at the front desk to call him a cab. He waits outside with his bag at his feet. The sun is hot overhead, making sweat pool at the back of his neck, drip down from his hair. From where he’s sitting, he can still hear people in the pool.

“I got a call. I’m leaving town,” Dean had said as Castiel threw his clothes back on, tried to zip up his jeans with shaking hands. 

“First thing in the morning,” Dean said.

Castiel said nothing, just ground his teeth together as he laced up his shoes. 

It takes twenty minutes for the cab to arrive. Castiel grabs his bag, slings it over his shoulder. The cabbie leans towards the passenger window, squinting in the sun. 

“Want me to pop the trunk?” he asks. 

“No,” Castiel says. “This is all I have.”

\-----

Castiel rings the bell on the counter for a second time in ten minutes. He sighs, shifts the weight of his bag over his shoulder. He should probably just walk around back. Who knows how long he could be standing around here for. But then the door to the office opens, and Castiel stands up a bit straighter.

“For one?” Chuck asks, eyes glued to his notebook.

“Yes,” Castiel says. Chuck looks up at that, his glasses sliding down his nose. 

“Christ,” he says. “Aw, man. I thought you left for good.”

Castiel frowns. “I wasn’t aware I was unwelcome.”

“No, that’s not—that’s not what I mean.” Chuck shakes his head. “I mean, I thought you got out? Got away from this hell hole. I thought, maybe, you’d gone back home. I mean, some people came looking for you, after you left, and—”

“What?” Castiel asks. “Who?”

“Uh. Some guy—I didn’t get his name. Dark hair? Kinda looked like you,” Chuck says. Castiel looks towards the door, his heart pounding, and Chuck says, “Don’t worry, I told them I’d never seen you before.”

Castiel sighs in relief. His bag slips down his shoulder. His brother will have moved on, and Castiel doubts anyone else from his family will bother to come here. He’s safe. For now, at least. 

“Well.” Chuck digs through his files. “Your room’s available again, if you want it.”

Want it—no. Castiel shifts his bag again. It feels heavier since he left Washington, but the only thing that’s changed in it are the books from the shop and a stale sandwich he bought at the last station the bus stopped at. 

He doesn’t think about what he wants. 

“I’ll take it,” he says.

\-----

“Ugh,” Meg says when he walks in through the front door. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

“Hello,” Castiel says. 

“You look like shit,” she says.

“And you are as thorny and as beautiful as ever,” Castiel says, just because it’ll annoy her. She scoffs at him, grimaces like she tastes something nasty, but leads him away to an empty booth regardless. She fills up his mug with coffee and slaps a menu down in front of him.

“On the house?” he asks.

“Fuck off,” she says. 

Castiel blows the steam off his coffee as Meg pulls her pad of paper out from her pocket, causing a napkin to fall out. Castiel watches it flutter to the floor before he reaches down to pick it up, noticing the ink scratches on it, the lines that form a drawing of her face. He flattens it out on the table with his hands then hands it back to her. 

“What do you want?” she snaps.

“I went to a diner in Washington,” Castiel says. 

“Oh, look at you. Branching out,” Meg says. Then she adds, “Traitor.” 

Castiel ignores her. “I went to a diner in Washington, not unlike this one.”

“A hole in the ground?” Meg asks. 

“The coffee was awful,” Castiel says. “It tasted… burnt.” 

“That’s because some newb probably made it,” Meg says. “It was probably like, five days old.” 

Castiel shakes his head. “I didn’t know it was possible to miss a place. Or, well. The coffee from a place.”

“God,” Meg says. “You really need to get out more.”

Castiel takes a drink from his mug. It’s not great. It’s not even the best coffee he’s ever had. But it’s good enough.

\-----

“Can I get your number?” Castiel asks before he leaves.

Meg blinks at him, then bursts out laughing.

“Oh, sweetheart. You’re cute, but you’re, uh. Y’know.” Castiel doesn’t know. Meg waves her hand in a vague gesture, unhelpfully adds, “and I’m not that kinda girl.” 

“What?” Castiel asks. 

“I mean…” Meg sets the coffee pot down on the counter. “I’m not exactly your type, right?”

Castiel stares at her. 

“I just want to text,” he says. “As friends. But if you’d rather not, I understand.”

“Oh,” Meg says. “Oh, thank fuck. No, that’s cool. Just, uh. Don’t send me any weird shit, okay? I don’t have a lot of data so my phone can’t handle you texting me pictures of dead birds, or whatever.” 

“I don’t take pictures of dead birds,” Castiel says. 

Meg looks at him. “Sure thing, Clarence.”

She programs her number into his phone anyway.

\-----

The pool is full of garbage again. Krissy is still at the motel, and Kevin. They play chess on a table under an umbrella that wasn’t there when Castiel left. Chuck must have bought it in a rare moment of awareness. Castiel fishes out cigarette butts, a ziplock bag, and what he seriously hopes is not a condom, and what thankfully turns out to be part of a rubber glove. Which is bizarre in and of itself, but better than the alternative.

Chuck joins them later, after Castiel’s finished swimming and is stretched out in one of the pool chairs, drying off. Castiel shows him the photo he took of the sign in Washington, the one about vampires, and Chuck laughs. 

“Made me think of your book,” Castiel says. 

“Yeah? That’s cool. One of the guys would probably fall for a sign like that,” Chuck says. Sometimes he talks about his characters like they’re real people. Castiel’s long since gotten used to it. 

Chuck passes him a joint and they smoke it together in silence, watching Krissy beat Kevin for a third time in a row.

“Why’d you come back, anyway?” he asks eventually. Castiel blinks open his eyes, looks over at him. Chuck shrugs a shoulder and says, “Back here. I mean, I thought you’d found something good? That guy—Dean. I thought you guys… y’know.” 

Castiel doesn’t say anything. 

“Ah. Sorry. I guess I was wrong,” Chuck says.

“It’s fine,” Castiel says. He tries to smile, and Chuck nods, looks down at his notebook, at the pool, over his shoulder for a way to escape an awkward conversation he walked into in the first place. 

Castiel can’t say he blames him. He’d escape himself, too, if he could.

\-----

A week later, the phone in Castiel’s motel room rings just as he walks through the door.

He’s drenched in sweat, his black suit clinging to him uncomfortably. It’s cruel, he thinks, that anyone could make him go door-to-door in blistering heat wearing a full suit. But it looks professional, the man—Mr. Coyle—had said. 

“People won’t want to buy knives from just any old schmuck dressed in jeans and a band t-shirt,” Mr. Coyle said. 

Castiel thought of Dean, then. With his ripped jeans and the gun in his waistband. He tried to shoo the thought away, but once it made a home in the back of his mind, it refused to be shaken loose. 

But now he’s drenched in sweat, with a suit that’s a bit too big for him clinging to his form like a heavy, dead weight. All he wants is to hop in the shower, wash the day off him, and watch bad television while he falls asleep. But now his phone is ringing. Which means it’s either Chuck calling him for one reason or another—probably not a good one—Mr. Coyle who has another job for him, or someone he’d really rather not talk to.

Castiel sighs and picks up the phone, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He wipes a hand through his sweaty hair and says, “Hello?”

The line is silent for a minute. Then he hears, “Cas?”

Castiel’s mouth goes dry. 

“Dean,” he says.

\-----

Dean doesn’t say he’s sorry. And maybe he never will, and maybe Castiel shouldn’t expect it, and he keeps telling himself he doesn’t, so maybe he’ll believe it. But sitting on his motel bed, thankful he’s sitting down because now his knees feel weak, Dean’s on the other end of the phone, and that’s almost the same thing.

“I read that book,” Dean tells him. “That whole damn thing. I just—I had a day off. From the job, y’know. And it was a shitty day—it was raining and I didn’t want to go out so I just stayed in the motel and read.” 

“Did you like it?” Castiel asks, because it’s easy. It’s easy to talk to Dean about books, about things like aliens and where to get America’s best pie. Castiel’s hand grasps at the blanket. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. “There’s a censored version?” 

“Yes,” Castiel says. 

“And the names—you said one guy had my name,” Dean says. 

“Neal,” Castiel says. 

Dean is quiet for a minute. “Oh.” 

“I’m glad you liked it,” Castiel says. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. He sounds distant, lost in thought. “Shit. They shouldn’t censor books.”

“Different times,” Castiel says. He wants to ask Dean why he’s calling. Actually, more than that, he wants to tell him off, to tell him not to call again, to hang up on him hard enough that his hand vibrates with the impact of the phone meeting the cradle. He doesn’t, though. He just clenches his fist into the blanket. 

Then Dean says, “I’m going to California.” 

“Oh,” Castiel says. It’s not a question, but Dean presses forward anyway. 

“I got a brother down there,” he says. “Sam.” 

“I didn’t know,” Castiel says. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. “I’m, uh. Y’know. Half hour off the highway in the opposite direction will take me right past Big Sky. It ain’t a big detour.” 

Castiel sighs. “Dean.”

“I just—”

“I’m not going to do this with you,” Castiel says. “I’m not. I can’t just pretend to be a—whatever it is you want me to be. I can’t. I’m not some plaything for you to use and throw away. I don’t have the energy to be yanked around like that.”

“No,” Dean says. “No, I’m—I’m not asking for that.” 

Castiel rubs at his eyes. “Then what?” 

“Okay, just—how about this. You, uh. Come with me. As my friend. Okay? No sex. We’ll—we’ll eat at shitty restaurants and—and listen to my crappy music. And, uh, I’ll even let you drive, if you want,” Dean says. “You’ll get your own bed and you can help pay for gas and we—we won’t sleep together. Like, at all.”

Castiel feels the corner of his mouth twitch. 

“Are you sure you can resist my charms for that long?” he asks. 

“Well. Worth a shot, right?” Dean says. “If I can’t, you can just—I dunno. Throw cold water on me.”

Castiel does laugh at that, a quiet huff of amusement.

Dean continues. “C’mon, man. I’ll pick you up and everything. I just—”

Castiel hears him, the sound of him scratching a hand through his hair, or wiping a palm over his face. He can picture him, in some nondescript motel room off the highway, sitting on the edge of his bed with his elbows on his knees, staring at the far wall or out the window. 

Quieter, Dean says, “I can’t do this alone.”

\-----

Standing at the parking entrance of Big Sky Motel, bag at his feet and t-shirt blowing against his stomach in the dusty breeze, Castiel glances down the road. He wipes his palms on his thighs, checks his phone again and again, paces on the small patch of grass in front of the sign.

Chuck had bade him farewell that morning, didn’t seem all that frustrated that he was leaving again, didn’t say, “See you soon,” even though Castiel suspects it may be true. He turns away from the road and walks a tight line back and forth in front of the sign again. 

A few minutes later he hears it, the deep, rumbling purr of Dean’s car coming down the road. Castiel stops pacing, reaches down and grabs his bag off the ground just as Dean pulls up to the curb.

“Hey there, handsome. Need a ride?” he asks, leaning towards the passenger window. Then he grins, and Castiel feels something in his ribcage flutter pleasantly, something itch at the tips of his fingers and the base of his spine.

“Depends,” Castiel says. “Are you going someplace special?” 

“The specialest,” Dean says. 

“That’s not a word,” Castiel says. 

Dean rolls his eyes and unlocks the passenger door. 

“Just get in, doofus,” he says. 

Castiel tosses his bag into the backseat and opens the passenger door.


	3. A Brief Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They have an agreement. Dean looks at him and his stomach swoops. He makes his hands into fists to stop himself from reaching across the seat and touching. Sometimes Dean licks his lips, moves like he’s going to put his hand on the back of Castiel’s neck, or his shoulder, or his knee, but he stops himself. He stops himself even though Castiel leans into it, a touch that isn’t there.

Dean has a box of cassette tapes sitting on the floor of his car. Most of them have names Castiel only sort of recognizes, mostly from overheard snatches of talk on the diner radio. The signal faded out on rainy days, something Meg always complained about. 

Led Zeppelin and Queen and Pink Floyd and AC/DC he recognizes. Others, like Creedence Clearwater Revival and Blue Oyster Cult and Meatloaf, he doesn’t.

“Dude,” Dean says. “Meatloaf?” 

Castiel shakes his head.

“Bat out of Hell?” Dean says, like that’ll help any. “‘I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that?’”

“If you wouldn’t do ‘that’ for love then you wouldn’t do ‘anything’,” Castiel says.

“No—Cas,” Dean laughs, shakes his head. He holds out his hand and says, “Hand me the tape.”

Castiel does. The tips of his fingers brush Dean’s when Dean takes it from him. He pushes the cassette into the player. It takes some fiddling with buttons but eventually he lets out a triumphant “Ha!” and the car fills with the sound of a piano. 

“I’ve never heard this song before,” Castiel says.

“Shh,” Dean says as he turns up the volume. When the singer’s voice come in, Dean turns to him and makes a face, singing along to the words without actually saying anything, making a show of it. 

Castiel smiles.

\-----

Dean drives for hours without stopping. Highway signs blur past. They hit patches of traffic outside the larger cities. Dean grumbles every time he has to pay at the tolls, digging change out of his pockets. When he can, he takes back roads.

He pulls the car through a McDonald’s drive through and orders them food. Then he pulls off the main drag and onto a side road that’s been closed for construction. None of the workers are present. Dean gets out of the car and picks a spot of grass in the sun to sit down and eat.

“What’s your brother doing in California?” Castiel asks, picking lettuce off his Big Mac. 

“He’s going to school,” Dean says. “Law.” 

Castiel sucks sauce off his finger. “Does he like it?” 

Dean shrugs. “I guess. I haven’t talked to him in a while.”

“Hmm,” Castiel says.

“What about you?” Dean asks. “Do you have any family?”

Castiel takes a bite of his sandwich and looks off down the road.

“I haven’t talked to them in a while either,” he says.

\-----

They pull into a motel just after midnight, the third they’ve driven past but the only one with a glowing “vacancy” sign.

Dean’s knees pop when he gets out of the car. He groans, stretches his back. Castiel pulls his bag out from the backseat and slings it over his shoulder. Dean motions for him to wait and goes into the trunk. He tucks something down the back of his jeans and grabs his bag. 

The room smells of dust and stale cigarette smoke. The television barely works. The color scheme is blinding. But there’s a working coffee maker and the shower has hot water, so Castiel doesn’t complain. 

He reads after, stretched out on his bed, feet crossed at the ankles. Dean emerges from the bathroom wearing pyjamas, his hair still wet, smelling of soap and toothpaste. He hovers in the doorway for a minute. 

“Everything all right?” Castiel asks, glancing up from his book.

“Huh?” Dean says. “Yeah, fine. Just—hey. Is it gonna bother you if I, uh. Keep my gun on the dresser?” 

Castiel shrugs. “Better than down the back of your pants, I imagine.”

Dean huffs out a laugh. “Yeah. More comfortable.”

He sets his gun down on the dresser. It’s sleek and silver, the handle pearly-white. Castiel doesn’t touch it and Dean doesn’t say anything, pulling back the covers on his own bed and crawling in.

“Good night,” he says.

\-----

Castiel wakes up to Dean screaming.

It’s nearly four in the morning. He bolts upright, terrified and still groggy with sleep. Dean struggles in the bed next to his, fighting with the blankets. He’s still asleep. 

Castiel gets out of bed and makes his way over to Dean’s side. He stares down at him, at the lines on his face, the fear, the tension. He looks around the room, to the window, the door. The gun on the bedside table. 

Dean growls out, “No!”

Castiel sits on the edge of the bed. Carefully he reaches out. He touches his hand to Dean’s cheek, warm against his palm. He slides his hand up into Dean’s hair, scratches through it with his fingers. 

“It’s okay,” Castiel says. He does it again, and again, until Dean stops flailing, until his breathing returns to normal and the lines in his face go smooth.

\-----

The further south they drive, the less clothing Dean wears.

He keeps the windows rolled down, his elbow leaning against the door, hand draped causally over the wheel. The sun casts golden light on his bare arms, his wrists, his face. His freckles stand out. His face all but glows when he grins. 

He has holes in the knees of his jeans. He can’t sing but he does it anyway. He laughs easily even though Castiel’s jokes aren’t funny. He’s soft and warm and gentle, and Castiel’s fingers itch.

They have an agreement. Dean looks at him and his stomach swoops. He makes his hands into fists to stop himself from reaching across the seat and touching. Sometimes Dean licks his lips, moves like he’s going to put his hand on the back of Castiel’s neck, or his shoulder, or his knee, but he stops himself. He stops himself even though Castiel leans into it, a touch that isn’t there.

\-----

There’s a black van sitting in the parking lot of a gas station in Utah.

It’s not until Castiel is rounding the corner of the building, coming back from using the bathroom, that he notices it. His heart leaps into his throat and his hand goes numb from where it’s clutching the bathroom key. 

The van is empty. The Impala is still where Dean parked it at the pump, but Dean’s gone inside to pay. Castiel fidgets with the key. The door to the gas station opens, tiny bell tinkling. Castiel flattens himself against the wall.

No one comes around the corner. He leans around it, trying to stay hidden. Dean comes into view and Castiel’s heart slows a beat.

“Dean,” he calls out. 

Dean spins in a circle on the spot, looking around. There’s two cups of coffee in his hands. 

“Over here,” Castiel says. Dean spots him and with a frown walks over.

“What are you doing?” 

Castiel hands him the bathroom key. “Can you give this to the clerk?”

Dean’s frown deepens. The door opens again and Castiel inhales, sharp, cowering back against the wall. Two men and a woman in dark suits walk out, their shoes reflecting the yellow glare of the sun. Dean turns his head, just slightly, not enough to be obvious but enough to see. Then he looks up at Castiel. 

His eyes move to a spot behind Castiel. He nods. 

“Get behind there,” he says. Castiel turns to find an ice machine a few steps away. Dean says, “Toss me the key.”

Castiel does as he’s told. Dean catches the key one-handed, balancing the coffee with his opposite hand. The men and the woman in suits make their way across the parking lot towards the black van. Castiel slides along the wall towards the ice machine. Dean disappears back into the building. 

The woman gets into the van first, into the passenger seat. The taller of the two men gets into the driver’s side. The other gets into the back. Castiel listens for the ignition. Waits for the lights to flick into life. Then he watches the van pull out of the parking lot and drive down the road, out of sight.

\-----

“Friends of yours?” Dean asks once they’re back on the road.

Castiel warms his hands on his coffee cup. It’s bitter and flavorless and feels like dirt in his mouth. But he drinks it all, thankful for something to do, for something else to think about.

Castiel doesn’t look up. He shakes his head and says, “Family.”

\-----

The next motel is a little nicer. The color scheme not as dizzying. The television has better reception. There’s an ice machine down the walkway. Castiel wanders out in his boxers, bare-footed, and fills the bucket. The air is dry, hot. It smells like the desert.

There’s no air conditioning in their room. Castiel opens the window as far as it will go. He sits on Dean’s bed with a mug and scoops ice out of the bucket. The pieces are thin and watery. He pops one into his mouth, sucks on it, breaks it with his teeth. 

Dean comes out of the bathroom.

“Hungry?” he asks, nodding to the mug.

“No,” Castiel says. “Hot.” 

Dean licks his lips. He tucks his dirty clothes into the bottom of his duffle. 

Castiel unfolds himself, pushes off the bed. He makes his way across the room to stand in front of Dean. Dean doesn’t look him in the eye when he looks up. His t-shirt clings to his chest. Castiel slips his fingers under the hem and Dean jumps.

“Jesus,” he says, voice shaking. “Your hand is freezing.”

“Sorry,” Castiel says. 

“I don’t think you are,” Dean says. 

“You’re right,” Castiel says. He presses forward, catches Dean’s lips with his own. Dean inhales, leans into it before he stops and jerks back with a shake of his head.

“Wait,” Dean says. “I thought—we had an agreement.”

“Just for tonight,” Castiel says. 

“Cas,” Dean says. Cas lets his hand slip out from under Dean’s t-shirt.

“Right,” he says. “I apologize.”

Dean’s shoulders droop.

\-----

The sheets cling to Castiel’s back. His neck is sweaty. The open window does little in the way of a breeze. Dean tosses and turns on the next bed. Eventually Castiel hears him sigh, loud, annoyed. Hears him scrape at his face with his hand.

“Maybe I’m lonely,” Castiel says into the dark. “Maybe that’s all I’m qualified to be.” 

Dean snorts. “Dude.”

Castiel smiles. Dean sighs again.

“All right,” he says. “Maybe we can—I dunno. Come here.”

Castiel rolls off the bed. Dean slides over on his own, leaves space for him. Castiel crawls into it, settles down against the sheets, warm, almost hot. The pillow is mushed from where Dean’s head rested. They don’t touch each other, but Dean leans up on an elbow, looks down at him.

“You gonna be okay?” he asks. 

“For now,” Castiel says. He eyes Dean’s mouth in the dark and asks, “Are you?” 

“I’m always okay,” Dean says.

\-----

Dean has another nightmare. He nearly punches Castiel in the face trying to untangle himself from the blanket, trying to break out of whatever imaginary hold he’s in. Castiel manages to calm him down with a gentle hand to his chest, another in his hair. He keeps his voice low, steady.

\-----

Dean parks the car on a quiet street the next morning. He turns off the ignition and sits in silence with his hands grasping the wheel. Castiel looks out the window, at the tall houses that slope downwards on a hill. In the cracks between the buildings he can see blue water sparkling.

Dean keeps his eyes closed. Castiel waits. Dean inhales, deep, and opens his eyes. 

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

\-----

A young woman answers the door. She’s wearing a t-shirt with weird writing on it. Her hair is long and blonde and it curls around her face. Castiel tries to subtly read the writing across her chest. Thankfully she doesn’t seem to notice, her eyes locked on Dean.

“Oh,” she says. “Wow. Um. Holy shit.” 

“Hey,” Dean gives her a nervous, lopsided grin. 

“We weren’t expecting you,” she says, voice low. Castiel looks up. Her eyes move from Dean to him. She frowns at him and Castiel nods at her. He presses closer to Dean’s side.

“Yeah, well. I was in the area,” Dean lies. 

Castiel doesn’t look at him. There’s footsteps on the other side of the door, the sound of shuffling, then a tall man appears behind the woman, dressed in faded jeans and a loose t-shirt, his hair messy. He stops in his tracks at the sight of them. 

“Son of a bitch,” the man says.

\-----

Jessica gives him a mug of hot tea and sits down across from him at the kitchen table. Further in the apartment he can hear voices, locked behind a bedroom door. They rise and fall like waves, going loud and angry then soft again. Jessica taps her fingernails against her mug.

“So,” she says. 

There’s a painting hanging on the wall behind her. It’s mostly black, but there’s red seeping through. Castiel nods to it. 

“Did you paint that?”

Jessica turns around to look, then shakes her head.

“Sam,” she says. 

“Dean didn’t tell me he was an artist,” Castiel says. 

“He’s not, really,” Jessica says. She sits cross-legged on her chair. The writing on her t-shirt is just a bundle of random words in all-capitals handwriting: _FAVORITE. VACANT. FEAR. GOD._

Castiel likes her already.

Jessica continues, “It’s more of a—a therapeutic thing.”

Castiel nods. “I find drawing very relaxing.” 

Jessica smiles at him. It reaches her eyes. Castiel’s stomach flutters pleasantly. She takes a drink from her mug, warms her hands on the ceramic. Glances down the hallway when there’s another shout followed by the sound of Sam hissing at Dean to be quiet. 

“How do you know Dean?” Jessica asks. 

“Um,” Castiel says. He looks down at his hands. “I—we met at a diner. We were staying at the same motel.”

Jessica raises her eyebrows.

Castiel lies and says, “Dean fixed the air conditioning in my room.”

He lies and says, “We’re just friends.”

Jessica looks him over and Castiel feels like a book. 

“Cool,” she says eventually. “That’s good. I don’t think Dean has a lot of friends.” 

The bedroom door opens and Sam wanders down the hallway, shoulders tense. He relaxes when he sees Jessica sitting at the table. Dean follows a minute later. There’s bags under his eyes that Castiel didn’t notice before, neglected stubble along his chin. He won’t meet Castiel’s eye.

“The couch is a pull-out,” Sam says to the room at large. “I need to talk to Jess.” 

Jessica shoots Castiel an apologetic look and unfolds herself from the chair. She follows Sam down the hallway. Dean exhales and finally looks up.

“Well,” he says. “That went better than I expected.”

\-----

That afternoon Dean corners him on the balcony, hands in his pockets, head bowed and shoulders rounded to make himself look smaller. Castiel is on his third cup of tea. He enjoys the taste better than coffee. It’s sweet and fresh. Jessica tells him it’s peach flavored white tea. Castiel could live on it.

“Hello,” he says. There’s salt in the hot breeze. He can taste it on his tongue. 

“Hey,” Dean says. He comes to stand next to him on the balcony, leaning against the railing with his hands folded. They stand in silence for a few minutes, listening to the sound of traffic, of gulls, the distant sounds of the ocean. Castiel drains his mug. 

“Sammy and me are gonna go out for a bit,” Dean says. “Catch up. Jess said she’ll take you down to the boardwalk, if you’re interested. There’s some restaurants down there. Cool shops, crap like that.”

“I don’t want her to feel obligated,” Castiel says.

“Nah,” Dean says. “She likes you.”

Castiel ducks his head, smiles at his hands. 

“She’s very nice.”

Dean shoulder checks him playfully. “You got a crush or something?”

“No,” Castiel says. “I’m not overly familiar with kindness. I’m not sure how to react when someone treats me with it.”

Dean snorts, shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything. The marks on his neck, on his wrists have long since faded, but they’ve burned themselves into Castiel’s mind. He can trace them with the tip of his finger from memory alone. 

Dean pulls his hand out of his pocket and hands him a few twenties. 

“Lunch is on me,” he says. 

“Dean,” Castiel says. “I can’t—”

“Cas, c’mon. It’s nothing.” Dean takes Castiel’s hand and pushes the crinkled bills in it, folds his hand over top of them so Castiel can’t give them back. Dean holds his hand closed and says, “Please.”

\-----

Jessica takes him to a quiet café a little way up the street from the ocean.

“The view isn’t the best but the food is homemade,” she says. “Try the sweet tea.”

Castiel’s hands jitter from too much caffeine. As they wait for their food he pulls a pen out of his pocket and sketches the brickwork in the building. Jessica watches him with her hand resting against her cheek, eyes hidden behind a large pair of leopard-print sunglasses. 

Castiel flips the napkin over, fiddles with the pen cap. “May I draw you?”

Jessica grins. “How do you want me?” 

“What?”

“Should I pose?” she asks. She makes a face and strikes a pose in her chair. Castiel fights back a smile.

“No,” he says. “Just do whatever you’re comfortable with.”

She watches a young couple a few tables over fuss over their newborn. Castiel draws the curls of her hair, the delicate swoop of her shoulders, the thin lines of her neck. There’s a small ring on her left hand. 

“You draw a lot?” she asks after their food has arrived. 

Castiel picks at his salad, chews thoughtfully on an olive. “Just doodle, mostly.”

“Pretty good, for doodles,” she says. She dips a chicken finger in ketchup and asks, “You ever think of getting a sketchbook?” 

“I can’t really afford it,” he says. 

“Probably beats drawing on napkins,” Jessica says. 

Castiel shrugs one-shouldered.

\-----

She takes him to an art store afterwards. The back wall is lined with canvases in various sizes. The shelves covered in different colors of paint, from one end of the spectrum to the next. There’s more paintbrush sizes than Castiel ever thought possible, more coloring pencils and markers and sketchbooks in various sizes and paper qualities that he has to fight the urge to turn around and leave again.

“Pick one,” Jessica says. 

“I can’t,” Castiel says. 

“You can,” Jessica said. “Dean gave you some money. I’ll cover the rest if that doesn’t.”

Castiel stands behind a shelf of sketchbooks for over twenty minutes. He touches the pages inside of each one. Some are too thin. Some are too thick, meant for watercolor paints. Some have brown paper, some have cream, some pure white. Some are spiral-bound and some are built like textbooks. 

Finally he picks one with a perforated pages and a spiral, only slightly bigger than the size of a novel. 

“Perfect,” Jessica smiles at him. 

He has just enough left to pay for it. The cashier puts it in a brown paper bag for him and hands it over the counter.

\-----

Sam and Dean still aren’t back when they return to the apartment. Jessica makes him more tea, promising its herbal this time, and fiddles with an old record player before joining him on the couch. She digs a small baggie out of a drawer in the coffee table, and Castiel watches her fingers as she rolls a joint.

She inhales, holds the smoke in her mouth, then exhales. It smells sweet. She hands the joint over to him. Castiel hesitates before taking it between his fingers. He inhales. The smoke sits heavy in his mouth. He exhales through his nose. 

He doodles in his new sketchbook and lets Jessica sort the napkins at the bottom of his bag. She makes two piles; one for inanimate objects, one for people. Some are of strangers, people he saw at diners, at the bus stop. Others are of his friends from Big Sky, Chuck and Krissy and Kevin. There’s one or two of Meg, ones with flaws, with tears in the fabric or pen splotches. Ones he didn’t feel comfortable giving to her. The rest are of Dean. 

“Huh,” Jessica says after a few minutes. 

Castiel looks up at her. Jessica turns the napkin around so he can see it. He feels his face warm. It’s an older one, from Washington. There’s a grease stain in the corner from pizza. Bored, Dean had stretched out naked on the bed and fallen asleep atop the blankets, rainy, dim light on his skin.

Jessica folds the napkin back up, reaches forward to tuck it into the pocket of Castiel’s sweater.

“Better not let Sam see that one,” she says.

\-----

He spends the rest of the evening alone on the balcony, feet propped up on the railing. He watches the sun set, the sky going orange and pink and purple and blue. Someone down the block plays techno music.

The screen door slides open behind him. 

“Dude,” Dean says. “Are you getting stoned?”

Castiel snorts. A stream of smoke escapes from his nose. 

Dean sighs. “Fucking Californians.”

He plunks down in a chair next to Castiel and steals the joint from his fingers. Dean inhales with practiced ease, holds it in, then makes smoke rings. He kicks his boots up onto the railing, next to Castiel’s bare feet. 

“I bought a sketchbook,” Castiel says.

“Yeah?” Dean asks. 

“Better than napkins,” Castiel says. “How are things with Sam?”

Dean shrugs, flicks ash off the joint. “Rocky. But that’s normal.” 

“He was surprised to see you.”

Dean hands the joint back to him. 

“We don’t talk much,” he says. 

Castiel takes another drag from the joint, then stubs it out on the railing.

\-----

“I like it here,” Castiel says later, after Sam and Jessica have gone to bed, after the high has worn off. The techno music stopped an hour ago. The lights from the city shine bright in the distance. Castiel’s toes are cold.

“Yeah, it’s pretty nice,” Dean says. “Not really my thing, though.”

“Oh?” Castiel asks. 

“I like the open road,” Dean says. “You know. Different sights. Not staying in the same place for too long. Passing through small towns that people kinda forget about. I’m still looking for the best apple pie in America, y’know.” 

He grins. Castiel smiles, but it fades. 

“You don’t think about finding a home?” he asks. “Settling down, like Sam?”

Dean shifts in his chair. 

“I don’t know,” he says. “Not really.” 

He sounds convincing enough. He rubs his fingernail with the pad of his thumb. He meets Castiel’s eye and smiles at him, crooked and boyish. Castiel leans his head back against his chair and closes his eyes.

\-----

“We’re not sleeping together anymore,” Castiel had said.

Jessica shook her head. “It’s not that.”

Castiel looked at her and Jessica smiled at him, sad. It was the first time it didn’t reach her eyes. She reached out and patted his knee gently, squeezed it in the palm of her hand. It felt warm even through his jeans. He missed it when she pulled away.

“I’m sure you know this already, but Dean is—troubled. They both are,” she said. 

Dean has scars on his knuckles. On his knees. Along his arms, his thighs. He keeps a gun with him at all times. Sleeps with it on the bedside table. He won’t let Castiel look in the trunk of his car.

“I’m glad Dean has you,” Jessica said. “He needs a friend.”

“And Sam?” Castiel asked.

“Sam worries about him,” Jessica said. Then she shrugged and said, “But Sam’s his brother. That’s what you do, right? You worry about your family.”

Castiel held his sketchbook tighter and didn’t say anything.

\-----

The weekend ends too soon and finds them standing in the hallway, outside the apartment Castiel has come to love in just two short days. Dean hefts his bag over his shoulder where it keeps slipping down, heavy with more books and sandwiches in bags for the road.

He got a call first thing in the morning. Sam followed him out onto the balcony. When they came back inside, his jaw was clenched, his hands were fists. Dean ignored it so Castiel did the same. 

“Nice seeing you again,” Dean says awkwardly. He grins at Jessica, then looks up at Sam. 

“Can I say anything to change your mind?” Sam asks. 

Dean shrugs. “Job’s a job.” 

Sam exhales, sharp. Jessica touches his arm gently and Sam stills. 

Dean claps Castiel on the shoulder and says, “See you later, Sammy.”

\-----

In the car, he says, “Do you wanna stay?”

Castiel blinks at him. “What?” 

“Here,” Dean says. “With Sam and Jess. They’d let you stay with them. If you wanted.”

Castiel frowns at him. “What about you?”

Dean shakes his head. “I gotta go.”

“Then I’m going with you,” Castiel says. 

Dean licks his lips, doesn’t look at him. “It’s not safe, man.”

Castiel says, “I’m going with you.”

Dean looks at him then. Mouth thin, jaw set. His hands tighten on the steering wheel. He looks up at the apartment building again, towards the balcony. Fights a battle within himself that lasts only a minute before he closes his eyes and shakes his head again.

“All right,” he says.


	4. Enough for One Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hears the sound of Anna’s voice through the speaker, tinny and muffled against Dean’s ear. He can’t pick out the words, but he knows the sound, the pattern of her speech. Dean’s face remains carefully blank. The message ends and he hands the phone back. 
> 
> “Listen to it,” he says.

Dean comes back to the room with a bloody mouth, a limp in his step, and a brown envelope full of cash. He shuts himself in the bathroom and starts the shower before Castiel can even get off the bed. 

He comes out again a few minutes later smelling like motel soap. The blood is gone but his bottom lip is swollen, and the bruises on his neck and the bags under his eyes are dark against his skin. He thumbs open the pizza box on the table but doesn’t take any out, coming over to Castiel’s bed to flop down face-first into the pillows. 

Castiel rolls over onto his side. He reaches up and runs a hand through Dean’s hair, still wet from his shower, down to his neck, thumb against his pulse point. Dean grabs his wrist, gentle, and rolls over onto his back, taking Castiel with him. 

“Hi,” he says. 

“Hello,” Castiel says. 

Dean’s chest is warm and damp, making Castiel’s thin t-shirt stick to his skin. He traces the line of Dean’s jaw with the tips of his fingers, his stubble scratching. They haven’t kissed since before California. Castiel catches Dean looking at him sometimes, eyes flicking down to his mouth. He’s kept to his word and doesn’t make a move.

But tonight Dean is bloody and bruised, and despite the warmth clinging to his skin, he’s still shaking. Castiel decides that this won’t count. This isn’t sex, this is comfort, so it doesn’t count. Carefully he leans down and kisses the corner of Dean’s mouth where it isn’t cut. Dean’s breath comes out a little rough. Castiel moves further down, nudging Dean’s chin up so he can get at his neck. He kisses one of the marks, then moves onto the next, then the next. Dean shakes beneath him. 

“Cas,” Dean breathes. 

Castiel keeps kissing them, the fingerprint shaped bruises. Dean’s hands slide up to his shoulders, grasping at his t-shirt. He pulls Castiel up and seals their mouths together, rough and uncoordinated, his cheeks wet. When his hands move down to the drawstring of Castiel’s pyjama bottoms, Castiel stops him, shakes his head. 

“I want—” Dean tries.

“No, Dean,” Castiel says. “Not tonight.” 

Dean drops his hands. Castiel rolls off of him, back onto his side of the bed. He pulls Dean in, lets him bury his face into the front of his t-shirt. Dean falls asleep after ten minutes.

\-----

Castiel wakes up first. It’s a Saturday and they have nowhere to be, no plans to leave yet, so he doesn’t bother waking Dean up. He writes a note on a pad of motel paper, letting Dean know that he’s going to get breakfast from the diner and that his phone is on.

The air is damp and hot with the threat of another summer storm brewing. The back of Castiel’s knees get sweaty after a minute of walking, the moisture in the air making his hair curl at the sides.

There’s a few cars parked outside the diner down the road, the door open so the static radio music filters into the parking lot. Everything is light wood and pine green on the inside, the floors scoffed and faded. Castiel orders the specials and two coffees to go and sits at the bar while he waits, going through his phone. There’s a missed call notification in the corner, and when the phone number comes up his breath gets caught in his throat.

“Here you are, sugar,” the waitress says, startling him. She slides two hot takeout containers towards him and a cardboard drink holder. Castiel gives her crinkled money from his pocket and tells her to keep the change.

\-----

They eat breakfast on the spare bed together, stretched out facing the television. Castiel’s almost finished his breakfast when he’s finally brave enough to ask, “What happened?”

Dean sniffs, mouth twisting up. He’s probably trying to grin, but it looks like a grimace. He looks like he’s in pain. 

“He wanted me to swallow.” Dean stabs a hashbrown with his plastic fork. “All good little whores swallow.”

He says it like it’s a quote. Like it’s a rule to live by.

Castiel stills. Dean licks crumbs off his mouth. His tongue catches on the cut in the corner. He winces. Castiel stares at him. 

“You don’t have to do this,” he says.

“Gotta make money somehow,” Dean says. 

“Dean—”

“It’s fine, Cas,” Dean says. “I like sucking dick. I like getting fucked. Might as well get paid for it.”

“They shouldn’t treat you like this,” Castiel says. There’s a fire burning in the pit of his stomach, working its way up through his veins. His hands clench.

“They’re paying me to treat me however they wanna treat me,” Dean says. “That’s kinda in the job description.”

“No,” Castiel shakes his head. “That’s not right.”

“And what do you know?” Dean says. “You’re some snot-nosed trust-fund brat. Huh? What do you know about making ends meet?”

“I know that no decent human being would treat someone the way you’re being treated,” Castiel says, voice like glass. “Especially during an act as intimate as that.”

Dean snorts. “You poor, naive son of a bitch. It’s sex, Cas. People get rough.”

“Against your wishes?”

“I like it rough.”

Castiel looks at him. “No, you don’t.”

Dean’s jaw clenches. He looks away. 

“What do you know,” he says. He stabs another hashbrown and says, “It’s none of your business, anyway. So just stay out of it.”

\-----

Dean makes a few phone calls. He steps out into the hallway so Castiel won’t hear. Then he grabs his jacket and throws it over his shoulders, his keys jingling in his pocket. Neither of them say anything, but Dean nods before he leaves.

Castiel turns his cellphone over and over again in his hands, presses the button so the screen lights up. He stares at it until the screen goes dark, then presses the button again. Eventually he has to get out of bed and grab his charger. 

The glowing number “1” next to his messages taunts him.

\-----

Later, Castiel says, “I’m never going to fuck you.”

Dean doesn’t look up from where he’s scribbling something down at the motel table. He grunts, his shoulders curling inwards. They swoop like the lines of a wave. If Castiel’s arms didn’t feel so heavy he would give in to the urge to draw them. 

Castiel gets off the bed, makes his way over. Dean stills, eyes still on the piece of paper. His handwriting is barely legible, scratches of letters that sink through the paper, leave dents on the page underneath from pressing so hard. 

“I’ll touch you. I’ll hold you. I’ll kiss you, and sleep with you, and I’ll be inside you if you want me to. Or you can, with me. I’ll do everything I can to make you feel good,” Castiel says. “But I won’t fuck you.”

Dean says, “Cas.”

Castiel says, “I just want you to know that.”

\-----

They sleep three to the bed that night: Dean on one side, Castiel on the other, and a space the size of an ocean in the middle.

\-----

Castiel’s phone sits heavy in his pocket as they pack up to leave the next morning. It’s sunny at least, and the breeze is a little drier, a little cooler. Dean buys a postcard at the desk when he checks them out, scribbles a message on the back and an address before he hands it back to the clerk. Then he meets Castiel at the door, claps him on the shoulder, and tosses him the keys.

“Your turn,” he says. Castiel stares down at them. They glint in his palm.

It’s been years since he’s driven. The Impala suddenly feels huge around him. The growl of her engine is deafening when he turns the ignition, the raw power of her vibrating the seats underneath him in a way he’s never noticed before. 

He turns to Dean and asks, “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” Dean says. He finds a pair of sunglasses in the glove compartment and slips them over his nose. “Head east.” 

“We’re in Oregon,” Castiel says. “The only way to go is East.”

“Smartass,” Dean says.

\-----

They rumble down the highway in silence for the first couple of hours. Castiel picked a random tape from Dean’s collection and let it play from wherever it was left off. Dean sleeps against the passenger door until around eleven-thirty, when he wakes and announces he’s hungry.

Castiel takes the next exit and they wind up in another small dusty backroad town with a gas station and a drive-through burger joint. Trees line the road on either side, a sea of green and shaded pavement.

They’re waiting for their burgers when Dean says, “You can love someone and still fuck them.”

The sun is hot against Castiel’s knee, shining in through the open window. 

“Those things aren’t mutually exclusive,” Dean says. 

Castiel moves his hand so the sun touches his knuckles.

“What those men do to you is not love, Dean,” he says.

\-----

It’s another two hours before Castiel says something.

Dean has taken over driving duties again, his elbow leaning against the car door, wind blowing the short strands of his hair. He hasn’t taken off his sunglasses, and he chews on the straw of his empty cup of coke. They’re on a stretch of two-lane asphalt, and haven’t passed another car for at least three minutes.

“My sister called me,” Castiel says. 

Dean glances at him, the straw squeaking. He sets the cup down between his knees. 

“Shit,” he says. 

Castiel shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. She’s different.” 

“What she want?” Dean asks. 

“I don’t know,” Castiel says. “I can’t bring myself to listen to the message.” 

The last time he saw Anna, she was a shape moving in the dark of his bedroom, a quiet voice and a bag slung over her shoulder. She had woken him up the way she always did, a playful pinch to his neck, but then immediately placed her palm over his mouth and told him to keep quiet. 

That was two years ago. Sometimes, before Castiel drifts off to sleep, he catches a hint of lemongrass and mint, the smell of the tea she was always drinking that clung to her like a second skin. 

Dean pulls the car over to the gravel shoulder. A cloud of dust bursts up from the wheels and hangs in the air behind them. Dean turns off the engine and turns in his seat, his knee bumping Castiel’s and the leather squeaking under him. 

“Hand me your phone,” he says. 

“What?” Castiel asks. 

Dean holds his hand out, palm up. Castiel stares at it for a moment before he pulls his phone out of his pocket and places it in Dean’s palm. Dean flips it around and presses a button, swipes past the menu and then lifts the phone to his ear. Castiel holds his breath.

He hears the sound of Anna’s voice through the speaker, tinny and muffled against Dean’s ear. He can’t pick out the words, but he knows the sound, the pattern of her speech. Dean’s face remains carefully blank. The message ends and he hands the phone back. 

“Listen to it,” he says. 

Castiel swallows. He takes his phone back, his fingers brushing Dean’s. Then he tucks it away into his pocket again.

\-----

The next motel doesn’t have a pool, but their room is up on the second floor and the walkway faces the slope of a hill with a town sprawled out at the bottom. They pick up Chinese food on the way in and eat it together at the table. Castiel showers and doesn’t bother shaving.

Dean’s on the edge of the bed when he leaves the bathroom, sitting next to the open window as he fieldstrips his gun, cleans it out. The room smells of gunpowder and metal. Castiel rummages through his bag, shoves his dirty clothes into the bottom and pulls out his book. He sits at the table and watches Dean work. 

Eventually he says, “You don’t have to tell me, but I’d like to know what you do.” 

Dean doesn’t look at him, just shuts an eye and peeks down the barrel of his gun as he cleans it out with something that looks like a metal pipe cleaner. He grabs the next piece and says, “It’s not safe.”

“I know,” Castiel says. 

Dean glances up at him. “It’s not safe for you to know.”

“My family has been hunting me for a year,” Castiel says. “I broke the rules. I left. I… betrayed them. And I’ll be punished if I’m ever caught.”

Dean lowers his gun. 

“I’m not exactly safe either,” Castiel says. 

After a long minute, Dean says, “Maybe I don’t want you to know.”

Castiel feels his mouth twitch in the corner. “You think I’ll judge you?” 

Dean doesn’t say anything. He looks away, back down to his gun, and starts picking up the pieces. The metal clicks, echoes loudly off the walls. Dean’s jaw is tight, tense. Castiel doesn’t press his luck, just watches as Dean finishes putting his gun back together and tidies up after himself. 

He tucks his gun into the back of his jeans and then comes over to where Castiel is sitting. Castiel stares up at him, waiting, watching as Dean fidgets uncomfortably for a minute. Then he lifts his hand, cups Castiel’s cheek in his palm, and bends down to kiss his lips. 

“I’ll be back,” he murmurs against them. 

“I’ll be here,” Castiel says. 

Dean swallows and nods. Then he leaves.

\-----

His phone is warm from his hand. He turns it, slow, touches the button with his thumb. The screen lights up. The “1” next to his messages is gone since Dean listened to it, but the weight of it lingers.

Castiel inhales, slow. He exhales. He presses the button for his messages. His stomach turns. 

“Hey Cas,” Anna says through the phone, and Castiel’s breath catches. “Don’t ask how I got your number—you probably don’t want to know. I heard about what happened, and I just want to know you’re okay.”

Castiel closes his eyes. Thinks about stopping the message. He doesn’t. 

Anna says, “Give me a call anytime. You know I’m here for you, for anything.”

Anna says, “Please take care of yourself.”

The message ends and Castiel opens his eyes. The motel is quiet. The numbers on the bedside clock switch from night to morning. Castiel’s duffle sits on a chair in the corner, packed and ready to go. He has a bit of money in his pockets, a bit more tucked away, hidden in his bag. They passed a bus station on their way through town earlier. 

Castiel turns his phone in his hands, over and over again.

\-----

The growl of the Impala grows louder as it gets closer to the motel. It’s just after two in the morning and Castiel’s hands have gone cold. He watches Dean park the car and get out, a shadow moving in the dim glowing light of the vacancy sign, footsteps heavy on the metal stairs that lead up to the second floor. He stops when he notices Castiel leaning against the railing.

“Are you smoking?” he asks. 

Castiel holds the cigarette out for him. Dean comes to stand next to him. He takes the cigarette out from between Castiel’s fingers and inhales, leaning forward against the railing. He exhales smoke and hands the cigarette back. 

“Didn’t know you smoke.” 

“I don’t,” Castiel says. “I went for a walk. I bought them on a whim.” 

Dean doesn’t say anything. Castiel stubs the cigarette out on the railing and flicks the butt into the parking lot. Dean watches him, his face hidden in shadow. It’s a warm enough night but the breeze is cool enough to leave goosebumps on Castiel’s bare arms. 

“Where’s your next job?” he asks. 

Dean hesitates. “I haven’t gotten a call yet.” 

Castiel nods, looks out towards the town at the bottom of the hill, the lights glowing like fireflies. 

“Could we make a detour?” he asks. 

“Where to?” Dean asks. 

“Michigan,” Castiel says. “I’d like to see my sister.”

\-----

They share the bed that night. Castiel stares up at the ceiling. Dean curls up against his side, thin blanket kicked down to his feet while Castiel is covered. His hand rests on Castiel’s chest, rising and falling with his breathing. He smells like fresh air, like leather, like sweat and dirt from whatever it was he was doing all evening.

The bruises are starting to fade from Dean’s neck again. He doesn’t flinch when Castiel touches them.

“Does Sam know what you do?” Castiel asks into the dark. They’ve been quiet for hours but Dean’s breathing is too quick for him to be asleep. He shifts against Castiel’s side. 

“Some of it, yeah,” Dean says. “Some stuff I really don’t want him to know.”

“Hmm,” Castiel says. He thinks about his conversations with Jessica, the way whenever she looked at Dean her eyes would cloud with worry. She wasn’t as good at hiding it as Sam was. Dean either doesn’t notice or chooses to ignore it, so Castiel doesn’t say anything.

\-----

They take turns driving to Michigan. Dean doesn’t like driving on the highway, so they weave on and off it depending on who’s behind the wheel. Castiel falls asleep during his next turn in the passenger seat, and when he wakes up they’ve stopped at a gas station and Dean is nowhere to be seen.

Castiel gets out of the car, his legs stiff from sitting for so long. He stretches his back and looks around. There’s a few rigs lined up along the edge of the lot, parked close to a food truck. A group of men sit under the shade of an umbrella eating hotdogs out of foam containers. 

Castiel heads inside the store where it’s air conditioned and a college kid in glasses is watching the news behind the counter. He buys a bag of licorice for Dean and sunflower seeds for himself along with two bottles of water. The kid hands him back his change and Castiel slips back outside just as a gruff, older looking man walks past, Dean following shortly behind. 

“Hey,” Dean says. “I thought you were sleeping.”

“I was.” Castiel watches the man walk towards one of the trucks. Then he turns to look at Dean. Dean won’t meet his eye, but he takes the bottle of water Castiel hands him and breaks open the cap. He swallows down a quarter of it in one go. 

“You wanna drive?” he asks. 

The older man opens the driver’s side door of his truck and climbs in. 

“No,” Castiel says.

\-----

Dean’s tapes rattle quietly in their cardboard box as Castiel picks through them. He likes Led Zeppelin better than The Rolling Stones, but he likes The Rolling Stones better than Metallica. He prefers Pink Floyd over all three of them, and he’s not sure how he feels about AC/DC, just that they’re loud and his throat starts to sting in sympathy for the singer’s voice about halfway through an album.

Each tape is labelled with Dean’s scratchy handwriting. Some have weirder names, _kick it in the ass_ and _who gives a fuck_. One of the tapes is broken, the container cracked and the tape hanging out the bottom like it’s been hit by a car and left on the side of the road. The label says _love is for douchebags_. 

Castiel drops the tape back into the box. The cardboard leaves dust on his fingers. 

“How much?” he asks. 

Dean turns his head slightly but doesn’t look away from the road. 

“How much what?” he asks. 

Castiel’s jaw hurts from clenching it all afternoon. 

“How much did he pay you?”

Dean doesn’t say anything. One song fades into the next. Dean’s knuckles roll like waves as he flexes his fingers against the steering wheel. 

“He filled the tank,” he says after a long minute.

Castiel moves the box of tapes off his lap and into the backseat. 

“What do you do for a hundred?” 

“Cas—”

“Two hundred?”

Dean shakes his head. “I’m not taking your money.”

“Three hundred?” 

Dean’s jaw twitches. 

“Four?” 

“Stop,” Dean says. “Just—stop.”

“How much would I have to pay you to not do that again?” Castiel asks. When Dean doesn’t answer, Castiel says, “If you have to, then fine. But don’t do it when I’m around. That’s all I ask.”

Dean finishes his bottle of water. He doesn’t touch the licorice Castiel bought him. They drive on in silence.

\-----

Anna’s house is tucked away down the far end of a dead-end road. Gravel pings off the undercarriage of the Impala as Dean eases her around potholes the size of stop signs, muttering under his breath whenever the wheels scrape one.

The house is an old, white farmhouse surrounded by fields. A few trees tower over the property line, and there’s a white fence with an open gate leading to the backyard. They pull up the dirt drive followed by a cloud of dust, and a woman with blonde hair rounds the back of the house just as they’re getting out.

“Now there’s a sight for sore eyes,” she calls out. She comes at Castiel with her arms out and wraps him up in a hug as soon as she’s close enough. Her skin is tanned from working out in the sun, and there’s dirt on her cheek. 

She pulls back and glances over at Dean. 

“Who’s this?” she asks. 

“This is Dean,” Castiel says. “Dean, this is Jo.” 

“Hi.” Jo holds out her hand. Dean takes it in his own and they shake, business-like, Dean looking at Castiel curiously. Jo lets go and looks back at Castiel. “She’s in the backyard. C’mon.” 

Jo leads them around the side of the house. Dean follows close enough that his hand bumps Castiel’s as they walk. The backyard opens up to a paddock with a small barn and two grazing horses, their heads hidden in a pile of hay. Sitting on the grass in the shade of the tree, her back turned to them, is Anna. 

She turns when they cross the lawn, her face lighting up when she sees him. Jo comes to stand at her side, bends down to help her off the grass. Anna holds her stomach as she gets up, round underneath her summer dress, and lets out a breath before making her way over. 

“You’re pregnant,” Castiel says. 

Anna smiles at him. “Ah, you noticed.” 

She stands on her toes to kiss his cheek, then nods to Dean. 

“Hey,” he says. “I’m Dean.” 

“You scared of horses, Dean?” Anna asks.

“Not at all,” Dean says. 

Anna nods to Jo, who waves Dean towards the paddock. Dean gives Castiel one last look before he follows her. Anna reaches out and takes Castiel’s hand in her own, leading him away from the yard towards the house.

\-----

Everything inside the house is rustic and smells of old wood. The floors creak when they walk over them, the boards bloated and uneven with age. Anna brings him through the back door and into a small kitchen. Everything is white and open. She makes tea, lemongrass and mint, shooing him away when he tries to help, and sets the kettle on a tea towel in the center of the table.

“When did you get pregnant?” Castiel asks, steam from his tea curling around his face. 

“Seven months ago,” Anna says. “Artificial insemination.”

“Have you met the father?” Castiel asks. 

Anna nods. “He’s a friend. I met him at school.” 

Castiel takes a drink from his mug. It’s fresh-tasting, not too sweet. He closes his eyes.

“Gabriel has kept me updated,” Anna says and Castiel opens his eyes. She shakes his head. “He won’t say anything. And they’ll stop looking.”

“I know,” Castiel says. 

“He’s worried about you, though,” Anna says. 

Castiel nods. He drinks more tea. Over Anna’s shoulder, he can see Jo and Dean dumping a wheelbarrow of dirty hay into the field. Jo spreads it with her boot and Dean brings the wheelbarrow back inside the barn. Anna glances behind her then looks back at Castiel. 

“Where’d you find him?” she asks. 

“A town,” Castiel says. “In a diner.” 

Anna looks him over, quiet for a minute, reading him. She sets her mug on the table. 

“There’s a guestroom at the far end of the house,” she says. “It has its own bathroom.” 

“Thank you,” Castiel says. 

Anna nods. Then she says, “I’m glad to see you, Cas.”

\-----

When Dean finds him an hour later, he reeks of woodchips and horse manure. There’s hay in his hair and down the front of his shirt and sticking to his socks. He shuts the bedroom door behind himself and Castiel rolls over in bed to look at him.

“Man, Jo’s a hardass,” Dean says. He peels his t-shirt off over his head, sending bits of hay floating to the floor. His chest gleans with sweat, skin dark with dirt and dust. Castiel watches his muscles move. Dean drops his t-shirt into an empty hamper at the end of the bed and scratches a hand through his hair. “I need a shower.” 

Castiel gestures to the door behind him. Dean glances over his shoulder at it, then looks back at him. 

“What are you doing in bed?” he asks. 

“Well, I was masturbating before you interrupted,” Castiel says. Dean stares at him. Castiel huffs. “I’m kidding.”

“Oh,” Dean says. 

“I’m just resting.” Castiel sits up, leans back against the headboard. He rubs at his eye. 

Dean nibbles on his bottom lip, watching him. Then he jabs a thumb over his shoulder and says, “I’m gonna wash up.”

“Please do,” Castiel says. “You smell.”

“Ass,” Dean says. He undoes his belt and shimmies out of his jeans and boxers. Castiel follows the line of his hips down. Dean kicks his jeans away and stands up straight again, catching Castiel staring. Castiel doesn’t bother trying to hide it. 

Dean licks his lips. 

“Right,” he says. He clears his throat and disappears into the bathroom.

\-----

The four of them eat homemade chili and cornbread on the back porch, facing the paddock. The sun burns the trees along the horizon, casting everything into fiery yellows and oranges. Jo and Dean talk about crafted beer and skirt around the subject of guns while Anna and Castiel watch a barn cat groom itself on the fence.

It’s quiet out here, the only sound the birds and the horses stomping in their stalls, the occasional rumble of a distant train blowing in on a breeze. There’s no chattering television behind thin walls, no children splashing in a pool or cars pulling into a parking lot. Everything moves a little slower. 

Castiel helps Jo bring the dishes inside and together they wash and dry, Jo with her hands in the water and Castiel wiping away bubbles with a tea towel. Dean helps Anna out of her chair and she points him towards a small garden. He walks her towards it with one hand near her back, not touching.

“She’s going to ask you to stay,” Jo says, eyes on Anna. She doesn’t look away when she says, “And I know you’re going to say no.” 

Castiel tucks the plate he’s drying into the cupboard overhead and reaches for the next one. Jo finally looks up at him. 

“Is he worth it?” she asks. 

Castiel dries the plate and doesn’t look at her. “My brother once asked Anna the same about you.” 

Jo leans against the counter and folds her arms. 

“Look,” she says. “I’m not saying don’t. I’m just saying—I’ve been around enough shady places to recognize guys like Dean for who they are. For what they are. Guys like him aren’t good news, Cas.” 

“And I am?” Castiel asks. 

“You have people who love you. Who can protect you. Who _want_ to protect you,” Jo says.

“I appreciate what you’re saying.” Castiel grabs a mug out of the sink and dries it. 

“He seems nice, and I think he really cares about you,” Jo says. “But if he’s a good guy, he won’t want you to get caught up in whatever shit he’s in.”

When Castiel doesn’t reply, Jo drops her arms to her sides again and nods. She doesn’t say anything more. Castiel reaches into the sink and pulls the plug.

\-----

The smell of wood burning blows into their room through the open window. Someone somewhere down the road is having a bonfire, the sound of muffled voices carrying in over the distance. Despite the lack of streetlights, there’s still enough light coming from the moon to pick out shapes in the room, the desk in the corner and the open door to the bathroom.

The bruises and marks are completely gone from Dean’s skin. Castiel touches the spots where they once were with gentle fingers, tracing lines down Dean’s neck, over his jaw. Dean watches him, quiet, breathing a little unsteady. 

Castiel touches his thumb to Dean’s lips and Dean closes his eyes. 

“My dad,” he says, his voice low. Castiel stills and Dean licks his lips, continues. “He, uh. Went into business with a guy, years ago. Before Sam left for school. Some real shady shit. We were always on the road.” 

Castiel moves his hand down Dean’s neck to his collarbone. He presses his fingers into the swoop of muscle at his neck, massages a knot of tension there. 

“One year, after Sam had gone, my dad screwed up. I dunno what he did, but it cost this guy money. A lot of money. My dad told the guy he had a son who could handle a gun. He never told them about Sam.” 

Castiel dips his fingers into the collar of Dean’s t-shirt, moves them along his shoulder. He feels Dean’s throat move against his thumb when he swallows.

“The guy gives my dad orders. Some of them he passes onto me. Contracts, I guess. People who have fucked him over, who need to learn a lesson. Or some guys who’ve already done the job and need help getting rid of evidence,” Dean tells him. “One night my dad caught me in my car with another guy. He said if I was gonna suck dick I better be getting paid for it. Help with the debt. I lied and said I did. Gave him money out of my own pocket.”

Castiel pulls his hand out of Dean’s collar. He slides it down over his chest, over the bump where his necklace lies, the metal poking up through his t-shirt.

Dean says, “These men are dangerous, Cas.”

Castiel leans in and kisses him. Dean closes his eyes and sighs into it. Castiel slides his hand up his chest again, over his neck, his face. He holds him there as he pulls Dean’s bottom lip between his own, then moves to his top, Dean’s stubble scratching him. Dean chases his mouth when he leans back, hand grasping Cas’s t-shirt when he moves to be closer. He opens his mouth under Castiel’s, lets out a soft moan when Castiel dips his tongue past his lips. 

“I’ve never—” Dean starts. He lets go of Castiel’s t-shirt to wrap his arm around his shoulder. He says, “I never cared. I didn’t care what happened to me, to anyone around me.”

Castiel slips his hand under the hem of Dean’s shirt. His skin feels hot against his palm. 

“Then I met you,” Dean says.

\-----

Dean gets a phone call in the morning.

It wakes Castiel up. He buries his face in the pillow a minute before rolling over to find the other side of the bed empty, the sheets cold but slept-in. The room is warm, almost stuffy from being in the sun, and Castiel can hear the sound of a wheelbarrow rolling outside in the paddock, Jo and Dean chattering over the sound of the horses whinnying for food. 

Dean’s phone buzzes along the surface of the bedside table for a minute longer before it stops. Castiel stretches, pops something in his back. He sits up and looks around for his pyjama bottoms, leaning over the side of the bed to grab them off the floor. He gets out of bed and shuffles into the bathroom for a shower. 

By the time he’s done, Dean has come in from outside and is sitting on the chair in the corner, his duffle in his lap, scribbling something down in a notebook. He looks up when Castiel steps into the room, shifting his bag back onto the floor before standing up. 

Castiel’s heart sinks.

\-----

Jo pulls Dean into a hug in the kitchen, clapping him on the back. Anna turns her face so Dean can kiss her cheek, her hand small in his. She squeezes it and smiles softly at him when he pulls away.

Castiel follows Dean outside to where he left the Impala parked in the driveway, behind Jo’s truck. They walk in silence to the back of the car, Dean letting his duffle drop down from his shoulder and onto the gravel as he digs out his keys to open the trunk. 

Castiel gets a glimpse of inside of it for the first time, the guns and knives, the shovels, the bags of god knows what, boxes of clothes and random belongings. Dean shoves his bag inside and closes the trunk. He holds it shut with his hand, closes his eyes and breathes for a minute before turning to look at Castiel.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says, his voice quiet. 

Dean smiles at him like it hurts. He shifts from one foot to the next awkwardly for a minute before grabbing the front of Castiel’s sweater and pulling him into his arms. Castiel closes his eyes, breathes in the smell of Dean’s leather jacket, his aftershave. Dean clings to him, his face buried in Castiel’s shoulder. He pulls back and rests their foreheads together, his breath still shaking out of him. 

“Thank you,” Dean whispers. He nudges Castiel’s nose with his own and says, “For everything.”

Castiel kisses him. Dean kisses him back, again and again, until he has to force himself to pull away. 

“Okay,” he says. He sniffs once, clears his throat, and heads to the driver’s side door. Castiel steps back and watches as Dean slips into the seat and closes the door behind him. He starts the engine and rolls down the windows. He gives Castiel one last look before putting the car in reverse and backing out of the driveway. 

With the sun warm on his back, Castiel watches him drive away.


	5. Five Years Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes he hears the rumble of an engine coming down the road and turns his head. Some of the younger men in town drive classic cars, the smell of the gasoline lingering long after they’ve driven past. Sometimes it’s a farmer in an old truck. Eventually Castiel stops looking up.

He’s in town one afternoon, picking up fresh berries because Anna had a craving, when he spots it. It’s on a rack sitting outside the secondhand bookshop, one that has a paper sign attached to it that reads: _BUY OR TRADE NEW RELASES._

Castiel walks across the street, his arm heavy with bags of fruit, and grabs the book off the shelf. He turns it over in his hands, squints down at the writing on the back, and feels himself break into a grin. On the cover there’s the picture of a man standing in front of a crooked wooden cross, a hole in the ground at his feet and dirt covering his t-shirt. 

At the top, it says, “ _Lazarus Rising_ , by Carver Edlund.”

\-----

It sits on his bookshelf, its spine cracked and its pages collecting dust long after he’s read it. It comes with him when he finally moves out of the guestroom and into his own apartment in town, just a block away from the bookshop. He gets an employee discount, now. Secondhand paperbacks fill his shelves.

A year passes. Then another. Anna and Jo’s daughter, Heather, grows like a weed. She starts talking back, learning sarcasm like a second language, something that irritates Anna but makes Jo laugh. Castiel visits them every Sunday. 

Sometimes he hears the rumble of an engine coming down the road and turns his head. Some of the younger men in town drive classic cars, the smell of the gasoline lingering long after they’ve driven past. Sometimes it’s a farmer in an old truck. Eventually Castiel stops looking up.

\-----

His manager promotes him at the start of his third year, gives him a set of keys and tells him how to count the float, shows him how to fill out orders for book clubs and where the deposit is supposed to go. It’s boring, dusty work, but it’s something to fill his days.

More of Chuck’s books come in, dog-eared and well-loved. It makes Castiel smile. Some days he misses Big Sky, and Chuck and Krissy and Kevin. He hopes they’re doing well, that they’ve moved on, found some sense of purpose in life. Meg stopped responding to his texts a year ago, but he doesn’t take it personally.

He sends Chuck a copy of one of his books and gets it back a few weeks later, signed and with a personalized note inside the front cover: _Thanks for the inspiration, Castiel. – Chuck._

\-----

He’s just about ready to close up the shop when the bell above the door rings. It’s Friday and he’s exhausted from hauling old books out from the basement and onto the sidewalk for the donation truck to pick up. His hands are nearly black with grit and his shirt sticks to him with sweat. He just wants to wash his hands and grab dinner and go home.

Castiel gets off the floor and brushes dust off the knees of his jeans. He makes his way around a stack of books taller than him, opens his mouth to greet the customer, and stops in his tracks. 

He’s still wearing his leather coat, a bit more worn-in and faded now. He still wears jeans with holes in the knees. His stubble is almost long enough to be considered a beard, and his face has grown a bit longer to fit his features. But his eyes are still warm green, still shine with mischief despite the purposely blank look on his face. 

Dean holds up a copy of _The Complete Guide to Surviving an Alien Apocalypse_ and says, “How much for this?”

\-----

Castiel takes Dean home. He strips him down and touches his skin, the new scars, the new freckles. But there’s no bruises on his neck or on the insides of his wrists. There’s no blood or dirt under his fingernails. His hands don’t shake when he pulls Castiel closer.

Dean kisses him, breathes his name against his mouth, over and over again, “ _Cas._ ”

In the morning Dean makes him waffles and coffee. They sit on the balcony and eat together, feet propped up against the railing, watching the town come alive below them. Castiel waits for Dean’s phone to start ringing. 

And waits, and waits, and waits.

\-----

“He paid up and they shot him in the back of the head,” Dean tells him one night. He tucks his face into Castiel’s shoulder, and Castiel doesn’t need to ask who.

\-----

Every weekday morning he showers and puts on clean clothes and waters his plants. Dean watches him from where he sits on the couch, one of Castiel’s books resting open but ignored in his lap. He’s wearing nice clothes today, stubble trimmed down, a pair of brand new work boots sitting next to the table and a packed lunch waiting on the counter.

“Tell me how it goes?” Castiel asks.

“‘Course,” Dean says.

Castiel tucks the store keys into the back of his jeans and then comes over to where Dean is sitting. Dean stares up at him, waiting, watching. Castiel reaches out his hand, cups Dean’s cheek in his palm, and bends down to kiss his lips. 

“I’ll be back,” he murmurs against them. 

“I’ll be here,” Dean says.


End file.
